The Scion and the Sorcerer
by Kokytos
Summary: Returning from a quest, Arthur and Merlin spend the night in the woods. When Merlin finds himself forced to admit being a warlock, he puts Arthur into a delicate situation: The prince must uphold the law and report Merlin to the king, inevitably condemning him to death. But how can he do that to the person he secretly loves? / WARNING: Explicit man-on-man action in the epilogue.
1. Chapter 1 – How you holdin' up?

_Just one thing in advance: This little story of mine is set early in the course of the show, at some point during the second or third series, but before the events of 'The Coming of Arthur' and 'The Wicked Day'. So [not to be spoilered] is still alive, and Arthur doesn't know yet that [not to be spoilered] will betray him._

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CHAPTER ONE — HOW YOU HOLDIN' UP?

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Two travellers were riding abreast through an autumnal forest, far away from any human settlements.

One rider was armoured, wearing a hauberk with metal rings that sparkled in the setting sun. At his hip hung a sheathed sword that quietly clanged with each of his movements. To his right rode his servant, slouching, quietly groaning in pain. His left arm was bandaged with the red scarf he usually carried around his neck; the cloth was dripping with his blood.

The servant had serious troubles staying ahorse; every now and then, the armoured rider would grab him by the shoulders and pull him back into a safe position.

It had been an eventful day: After an unexpectedly long and perilous journey, the prince had successfully brought the wicked warlock Gormes to justice. Arthur should have been overjoyed, but there were two flaws that made this impossible:

Firstly, he had wanted to capture the warlock alive, so that the perpetrator could be put to trial in front of the royal court. But fate wouldn't have it: During the battle, a brick had fallen from the ceiling, fatally wounding Gormes.

Secondly, Arthur's faithful servant Merlin had been grievously wounded during the battle, and had lost a lot of blood.

This injury was the reason why both riders travelled abreast: Normally, Arthur would stay a few paces ahead, but now he had to take care of Merlin, for he feared that his servant might fall to the ground and aggravate his already grave injuries.

They had been riding quietly for some time now. The only sounds accompanying them were the rustling of the leaves under their horses' hooves, the clanging of Arthur's armour, and the occasional chirping of a bird. The scion and his servant were hungry, exhausted, and the rhythmical clip-clopping and the swaying motion had a lulling effect on both of them.

Besides, both didn't feel like talking anyway. Merlin had no breath to be wasted on his usual small talk, and the prince was plagued by his conscience: Because it was _his_ fault that his friend was possibly riding boldly towards the jaws of death. Because it was _he_ who had asked Merlin to accompany him on this journey, although there was no real need for that (apart from Arthur's wish to have him close to his side), and because it was _he_ who had opened that terrible wound on his friend's arm.

'How you holdin' up?', the prince suddenly said, looking anxiously at his servant's bandage.

'Don't worry, Sire ... I'll survive', said Merlin after a pause that was long enough to unsettle Arthur even further. The prince realized that Merlin's present reticence was way more annoying and alarming than Merlin's incessant prattling had ever been: More than anything else Arthur longed now for that cheerfully meaningless babble.

'I hope so.' He tried to lighten up his servant's mood by adding jokingly, 'Because if you don't, I'm gonna kill you once we meet again on the other side.'

Merlin answered by faintly raising the corner of his mouth, but neither did he laugh nor did he smile nor did he utter any retort; he just stared with unfocussed eyes at his horse's mane, breathing heavily as if a great weight was pressing on his chest.

'It'll get dark soon', Arthur went on, turning away his eyes from his servant and looking backwards over his shoulder, towards the setting sun. 'I think we better search for a place to spend the night.' No answer came—not even the slightest murmur of agreement or disagreement. 'We won't reach Camelot today anyway, not in your condition.'

Half an hour later, they halted at a place Arthur deemed suitable for the night: It was dry, big rocks sheltered it against wind from the north and the west, and a canopy of leaves would protect them in case of rain.

Not that rain would have been a problem: The sky was clear and its perfect azure wasn't blemished by a single cloud—though Arthur wouldn't have minded some clouds: They'd cover the land like a duvet and keep it warm at night. And since it was already late in autumn, this meant that they'd have to make a fire to keep warm. But a fire would attract brigands and footpads, so the two travellers would need to keep watch as well. And since Merlin was hardly in shape for that, it meant that Arthur might have to keep watch all night.

That was a sacrifice he was willing to make for Merlin, but he would have preferred not to.

The prince got off his horse and helped Merlin doing the same. Then he commanded his servant to rest, while he himself, limping a bit from the long ride and from a wound he had suffered in the warlock's tower, took care of the horses and gathered fire wood.

Returning a few minutes later, he tried to kindle the fire as well, but to no avail.

After a minute of striking the flint and sending but fruitless sparks into the tinder, he got annoyed: He didn't like failing at things, and failing at things in front of a snide-mouthed servant was even less agreeable for him. Though he'd have given a lot to hear Merlin's sarcastic remarks: Because they would have been a sign of recovery.

Luckily, the sorcerer was fit enough for that. Talking obviously pained him, but the servant couldn't let Arthur's failing miserably stay uncommented: Like a mother who'd demonstrate superhuman strength to save her child from harm, Merlin would have used the last ounce of his strength to make fun of his master.

'Behold Arthur, ... Prince of Camelot', the sorcerer said with failing voice, coughing, 'too clumsy to make a fire.' Then he dragged himself to the fireplace, weakly took the flint out of his master's hands and tried it himself. Due to his injuries, it took him three strikes, but then a small flame went up in the dry tinder and turnt right away into a warm, bright blaze.

'Watch your tongue. I'd have all the right to have you whipped for this remark.'

'Yeah, but you won't ... The Prince of Camelot ... wouldn't dare laying a finger ... on the ailing.'

'But he _will_ dare laying his fingers around the throat of a recovered', Arthur said while he laid some dry fir twigs onto the flames. 'Besides, I don't have to do _anything_ for you; _you're_ the servant, or have you forgotten that?', the prince said, then started preparing the food.

Merlin wanted to help him, but Arthur wouldn't allow it. Not that there was much to do for him—because there wasn't much to eat: When they had set out that morning at first light, they had reckoned that they'd be back at Camelot long before sunset, so they had left only with drinking water. But finding Gormes in a tower filled with traps and battling against the evil warlock had lasted way longer than expected, and Merlin's and Arthur's injuries had been slowing them down even more. Luckily, they had found some provisions in Gormes' tower, some bread, some meat, some cheese; not enough to fill the stomach of a grown man—let alone of two men—, but at least enough to stave off hunger.

Quarter an hour later, the feast was set. Merlin offered his share of the meal right away to Arthur. 'I'm not that hungry', he lied, pushing back the plate Arthur handed him.

Arthur scowled at him. He was not in the mood now for Merlin's playing the selfless. Wondering if it would have been appropriate to force-feed his servant, he said, 'Your stomach has been growling since we left the tower.'

'Has not!', Merlin protested weakly.

'It has. It was growling so loud, you even scared your horse once!—But maybe you didn't realize it because you were _too weak_!' He held the plate once more to his friend, and said in a commanding tone, 'Now eat! And you'll eat my share as well.'

'Sire, I couldn't! ... You're injured as well.'

'It's just a bruise I got, while you've lost a lot of blood. I don't need food _nearly_ as much as you do.—And I shouldn't eat anyway. It'll only make me drowsy when I'm supposed to keep watch.'

Merlin knew that his master was just making up things: Arthur had hardly eaten anything that day, and he wouldn't get drowsy from the little amount of food they had. And because the scion wasn't used to skipping meals, he probably was hungrier than Merlin.

But Merlin knew as well that that stubborn prince—even if he might have been a supercilious prat who liked insulting his servant—always thought of others first when it came to the crunch, and that he would have made undaunted the final sacrifice to save somebody else. That was one of the many, many reasons why the sorcerer had fallen in love with the scion.

And because of that, he couldn't allow Arthur to go hungry all night. The royal prat had that stupid heroic urge to constantly sacrifice himself for anyone, risking the future of the whole of Albion for any random subject of his. Arthur needed someone who'd save him from his own valour.

'At least have some of this', Merlin said and offered the prince a piece of bread and half of the cheese. And to make sure that Arthur would accept, he added with a threat, 'I won't eat anything ... knowing that you're hungry.'

Arthur grudgingly accepted, but not because of the threat. He did so because he knew that Merlin was very much like him: One couldn't enjoy the sparsest of meals, knowing that the other one hungered.

After the meagre, silent dinner, when the sun had finally set and the dusk had turnt into a dark, moonless night, Arthur asked once more, 'Has your wound gotten any better?'

Merlin checked his arm once more, then said, ' Yeah, it stopped bleeding. Doesn't hurt any more either.' Slowly, he was regaining his energy and his cheerful disposition.

'That's good to hear', Arthur said, relieved.

An owl hooted. Both turnt their heads towards the direction the sound had come from.

When their gazes met again a moment later, Arthur said, 'You know, I'm very sorry I did that to you, I really didn't mean to cut you. I tried to fight it, but Gormes controlled my every movement. Otherwise, I wouldn't ever have—'

'Just forget about it, Arthur. I know you didn't mean to do that, I don't blame you for anything, you shouldn't do that either.'

'Still, I really am _terribly_ sorry.—I shouldn't have made you come along in the first place. You could have helped Gaius at Camelot as well, there was no need to put you into danger. I should have chosen somebody else to accompany me, someone who knows how to parry an attack.'

'Sire, you know I like joining you on your missions, and I'm aware of the risks that await me. I might have joined you anyway.—Apart from that, you wouldn't have vanquished Gormes if I hadn't been there, Sire.'

'Oh?' Arthur raised his eyebrows. ' _Wouldn't I?_ So it was _you_ , crying like a little girl, cowering in a corner, who caused the ceiling to crumble down?'

Merlin rubbed his head and said, 'Right ... I must have been imagining things.—I _was_ injured and suffering from blood loss.' And he added, 'Though I can't remember having cried.'

'I might have made that part up', Arthur teased him, grinning. 'But it's gonna be your word against mine. Whom will the good people of Camelot believe?'

'They'll believe _you_ , of course.—But if I told them that I saw you picking your nose and smearing it on your doublet, they'll believe _me_.'

'I never did that!', Arthur protested.

Merlin shrugged his shoulders, grinning. 'I might have made that part up. But it's gonna be your word against mine.'

'Oh, shut up, Merlin', Arthur said, secretly enjoying that Merlin was fit enough for bantering.

Merlin did as commanded and leant back against the big rock behind him, contemplating the fire, ruminating the events of the day, while Arthur did the same.

The sorcerer repeated in his mind the words Arthur had said a few moments before. 'Crying like a little girl, cowering in a corner.' Glancing sideways to his right, to the prince—who was watching the campfire as if he were in trance—, Merlin felt an ever growing urge to finally confess his magic gift to Arthur.

He was tired of being ridiculed by the prince, of being called a craven by him, of having to lie to him every day. If Arthur knew just how much Merlin really had done all the time for him and for Camelot, how often he had saved Arthur's life and to what lengths he had gone to keep it secret ... If the prince knew that he—he, who was going to get all the honour for the feat, the praise from the King and the admiration of the court—that he had only been successful on this mission because the 'crying and cowering' Merlin had secretly disarmed a dozen of traps in the tower, had broken Gormes' control over Arthur's body, had saved the prince's life by causing the ceiling to collapse onto the evil warlock ... If Arthur had any idea of all that, then he'd acknowledge Merlin, he'd show appreciation for his ideas and his opinions and he'd no longer ridicule his purported lack of courage.

But then he looked at the prince, at his face bathed in the fire's warm light on the background of the cold, grey rock, and the same thing happened that always occurred when such thoughts crossed his mind: Arthur had no idea that magic could be used for good.

As far as the prince was concerned, magic was but an instrument for the wicked: Because all he knew about it, he knew from his father; from a person who had dedicated his whole life to the suppression and eradication of the Old Ways. And whenever Arthur was knowingly confronted with magic, it was used for evil: to overthrow the King, to torture and to kill innocent, to wage war, to force Arthur to hurt Merlin.

There was no doubt: The moment Arthur would have found out, any affection he ever had for Merlin would immediately be supplanted by hatred, contempt, and, quite likely, fear.

And Merlin couldn't bear the thought of being _hated_ and _dreaded_ by him. Being _unacknowledged_ by him was but a minor inconvenience compared to that. So he kept _that_ secret to himself.

He kept his _other_ secret to himself because he feared being _ridiculed_ by him. Because he knew that the inconsiderate clot pole Arthur would be a total arse about it, if Merlin were to tell him that he loved him. And since Arthur was obviously in love with Gwen, Merlin had long ago given up any hopes of the prince ever being more than a friend.

And that's why Merlin decided, once more, to do what Arthur was so fond of telling him: to shut up. And so, both his secrets were to remain what they were: secret.

Suddenly, Arthur cleared his throat and said, 'All right, Merlin. You sleep first. I'll keep watch now and wake you up when it's your turn.'

His servant was tired and exhausted after this day's ordeals, so he barely objected. While Arthur doffed his physical armour, so as not to wake his servant by the metals clanking, Merlin murmured a few words of thanks, wrapped himself into his thin, patched blanket of dun linen, and a few minutes later he was sound asleep.

The forest was not dangerous, but Arthur, wishing to be on the safe side, listened carefully to any sounds coming from the night around them. He heard nothing that could raise any suspicion: the crackling of the campfire, the occasional hooting of an owl, the distant snorting of the horses, the quiet murmur of a near rivulet and the calm breathing of Merlin's. Once he heard the howling of a wolf, but wolves were nothing to be afraid of: At this time of year, the wild animals still had plenty of prey, and they wouldn't dare going near humans, let alone a burning fire.

If there was any threat in the woods around, it wasn't armed with fangs or claws, but with knives or swords.

But even human threats were unlikely. Apart from the troubles that had been stirred by Gormes' presence, in these woods nothing of interest had happened for years. But still, Arthur saw no reason to let down his guard.

And so, time passed uneventfully. Arthur started to occupy himself by silently honing his sword, carefully flattening out any jags that were left by the impacts of unyielding materials like metal and stone; of materials other than the flesh of his faithful friend, whose reflection he saw regularly flashing up in the polished steel.

Arthur himself had barely felt it when the sword had cut Merlin's unprotected arm. There had been hardly any resistance compared to when the sharp steel struck the metal rings of a hauberk.

It was quite troublesome for Arthur to think of with what _ease_ he was capable of hurting his friend. He might not have been in control of his actions, but this made no difference for his conscience: It were his hand and his sword that had opened that horrible gash on Merlin's arm, that had made his friend scream in pain, that had made Merlin almost collapse due to the blood loss, and that still might have been a threat to his friends life.

The wound pained Arthur's mind as much as it must have hurt Merlin's body.

But it wasn't just Merlin's wound that pained Arthur, it was Merlin himself as well: Because Arthur loved the sleeper.

Not in the platonic way; not in the way a man may love a friend or a brother. He loved him in the way a man may love a woman, he loved him in the way a man mustn't love another man. He _desired_ him.

He dreamt not only of being _with_ him, but also of being _in_ him, of their unclad bodies entwined, of his servant's lustful whispering of Arthur's name.

Sometimes, Arthur thought of confessing his unnatural, forbidden love. Not because he thought that Merlin would reciprocate this feeling—anything else the scion considered impossible—, but because it would make his friend happy, because it would show him how much Arthur trusted him. Such a confession would allow him to make up at least partially for what he had done with his sword.

And Arthur could hope to gain something as well from this: a confidant. Merlin would become a person with whom Arthur could talk freely and honestly, on whose absolute secrecy he'd be able to count. Because secrecy was of utmost importance as well: If the public were to find out about Arthur's nature, the legitimacy of any son of his would be disputed, which might engender a war of succession after his death. And the prince couldn't do that to the people of Camelot.

He'd rather be alone and unhappy than have anybody else suffer.

But whenever Arthur thought of confiding in Merlin, in the end, he just dismissed this idea as ridiculous. Merlin was trustworthy, but—if Gaius was to be believed—he also liked spending time at the tavern. And wine could loosen the lips even of the most taciturn, and it could definitely loosen the lips of a certain servant who—even when sober—was prone to prattling.

While he reasoned thusly, gazing at the sleeper instead of at the sword he was honing, he cut his index finger on the metal's edge—having honed it very diligently, he didn't feel the cut at all until he saw the blood trickling on the blade.

As he put his finger to his mouth to suck the blood, he heard Merlin turning in his sleep and groaning, probably still pained by the wound. Arthur stood up and walked slowly and as silently as he could over the rustling leaves to his servant, who was now lying on his back, and knelt down beside him.

The prince had wanted to inspect the bandage, but when he was kneeling next to his friend, he couldn't look at the bandage. Instead, his eyes were captured by the skin on Merlin's neck: the skin that Arthur usually couldn't see because it was always covered by a red scarf.

The prince felt almost enchanted by the light of the flickering fire as it danced on the patch of skin, showing clearly the outline of the collarbones, the Adam's apple and the jaw bones. Never before had he seen Merlin's clavicle so clearly, so closely—so enticing.

The sleeper probably wouldn't have noticed if the prince touched the neck, if Arthur let his fingertips tenderly brush the smooth, silky surface. And even if Merlin noticed, it wasn't forbidden to touch with the fingers somebody's neck. Or the chin. Or the lips.

Suddenly, the lights dancing on Merlin's skin disappeared: Something had stepped soundlessly between the fire and Merlin, something was casting a shadow on the servant. Arthur gasped, but soon he realized that the source of this shadow was his own body, was his head that had bent down and had drawn near to Merlin's body.

The prince flinched back. Kissing his sleeping servant was not acceptable, it was wrong in so many ways—no matter how much he yearned for this.

He looked down on the sleeping figure in front of his knees and tried to get rid of his forbidden thoughts. He was going to be King one day. He'd need offspring, children to rule after his death. Merlin was a forbidden fruit: They were two men, they were master and servant, they were going to be King and subject, and the most basic problem of all: What were the chances of Merlin feeling the same for him?

As King, Arthur would be able to change some rules, but he wouldn't ever be able to make Merlin love him back. In such matters, a king was as powerless as the lowliest of the lowborn.

Arthur sighed, as his gaze wandered along the body of his sleeping servant, from the tousled black hair and the closed eyes to the somewhat pale lips, from the chin where a rough stubble had begun to grow, to the slim figure hidden by the blanket, to the used, tattered boots. What good was all the power of the King of Camelot if he couldn't use it to get the only one thing he really wanted?

Surely, that crown—a crown he almost dreaded to carry on his head—that heavy crown was accompanied by many amenities that made life easier, compared to the lives of the lowborn. But at the same time it took away so many options and liberties. Had Arthur been a commoner, Merlin wouldn't be just an impossible dream. Such relations were just as forbidden among commoners as they were among royalty, but hardly anybody would have cared if two lowborn men were to share a bed from time to time. Because of that, Arthur would have gladly swapped his life as a prince for the life of a pauper if it meant being able to have the sleeper.

Arthur noticed that his right hand had surreptitiously slid onto his servants chest, onto the thin blanket over the thin blue shirt, under which lay Merlin's bare chest. Through the tissue, he could feel the calm beating of the heart that wasn't his.

While he was thinking about removing his hand, Merlin suddenly spoke in his sleep.

'Ic ... bebíede ... fealle ...'

Arthur forgot what he was thinking about and, puzzled, repeated the words. He thought that he had already heard them once, though he couldn't tell where and when. He judged that it probably was the name of a herb or something like that. But he didn't try to make meaning of it. Dreams had no meaning, so Arthur thought, and interpreting them was for his taste too much like soothsaying and magic.

'Morgana ... evil ... witch ...', Merlin went on.

For a moment, Arthur wondered why Merlin disliked her so much— compared to her foster brother, she always treated him in a way befitting to the fine lady she was. But then the prince realized that it was impolite to listen to what a sleeper said, and that he should check the surroundings. So he got up and was about to limp away, but he froze in his movements, when he suddenly heard Merlin mumbling Arthur's name:

'Arthur ... my hand ...'

The prince held his breath and listened.

Merlin went on, saying, 'Some prat ...'

Arthur, not wanting to hear something Merlin didn't want him to know, quickly covered his ears and rushed away to check the vicinity. But all he could hear was his own beating heart, and all he could think of was the possibility that Merlin had wanted to say, 'Arthur, my handsome prat.'


	2. Chapter 2 – Oh shoot!

CHAPTER TWO — OH, SHOOT!

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Arthur spent a long time walking in circles around the camp, wondering whether he had heard the words right and what Merlin might have been dreaming of at all.

'My handsome prat', he mumbled quietly.

Maybe Merlin hadn't dreamt of Arthur. Maybe Arthur had misheard, maybe his servant hadn't been muttering about a 'handsome prat', but about 'and sump rat'?

Maybe the servant just dreamt of insulting Arthur, calling him 'some prat', without any connection to the 'my hand' earlier?

Whatever the reason, these few vague words were ambiguous enough to unsettle the prince, to rekindle the little flame of hope that Arthur had been carrying in his heart all along: They _probably_ meant nothing, but they _might_ have meant everything.

But even if they meant everything, they didn't change _anything_ : Arthur would only be able to have Merlin in his dreams, but never ever in reality. It might have been possible for a prince to have a handmaiden, but never would he be able to have a manservant.

So, while Arthur walked around the camp, evading the earshot of the talkative sleeper, he concentrated on dousing that little flame of hope again, and on thinking of things that would help him forget these words and distract him from the servant, who was slumbering peacefully, blissfully unaware of the raging turmoil he caused in the future King's heart.

Arthur occupied himself with things worthy of a prince's attention: with matters of state, with the harvest feast on the next full moon (though that just reminded him of his empty stomach), with the never-ceasing troubles on the Essetirian border, with the increasing number of magic incidents throughout the kingdom, with what gift to get Morgana for her name day, and so on. But while there were many matters that needed thinking about, there weren't nearly enough; because his mind always returnt to the same topic: 'My handsome prat.'

He kept on walking and pondering for a long time. The waning moon had risen in the east and was now shedding a dim, silvery light on the land.

When Arthur got tired, he returnt to the camp. His feet had started to ache, and his right thigh still hurt from the blow that moving statue had struck him in Gormes' tower, but at least he had successfully repressed both his hungers, that in his stomach and that in his heart.

'Oh, shoot!', he exclaimed loudly as he saw that the campfire had gone out. But when he ran to it and inspected it from close up, he saw with relieve that it was still hot and the coals were still glowing; all it needed were some fuel and some air. And indeed, a minute later, it was once more burning brightly and warmly. 'So much for "can't even make a fire" ', Arthur thought happily, as he sat down again, Merlin to his left, the fire in front of him.

The prince kept watch; the time slowly dragged on, without anything interesting happening: Merlin didn't talk in his sleep any more, the horses had stopped snorting, the rivulet was trickling as it had done all the while before. The owl that had been hooting regularly had gone silent as well, maybe it had set out to hunt and was now feasting.

The only things that had changed were Arthur's growing urge to yawn and Merlin's position: He was now sleeping on his right, with his back turnt towards the fire, hiding his face in the shadows, showing his bandaged arm almost accusingly to Arthur.

The prince leant back against the rock, crossed his arms on his chest and concentrated on staying awake.

Or at least, he tried to.

Because when he noticed that the flames had grown inexplicably high, he realized that it weren't the flames that had gone up, but that it was his head that had gone down, that he was about to doze off.

He tried to stay awake, splashing water on his face, stretching his limbs, silently slapping his face, but nothing worked. Fearing that he might fall asleep soon, he went to Merlin and knelt down once more next to him, then said, while softly shaking his servant's shoulder, 'Wake up, Merlin.'

The sleeper mumbled, 'Five more minutes, Gaius', rolled on his back and started snoring quietly.

'I'll give you five more minutes to _live_ ', Arthur grimly said. In the light of the fire he saw that Merlin's lips were not as pale as they had been before, and that these forbidden fruits had become _way_ more enticing.

'Sire!', squealed Merlin, startling up from his makeshift bed. 'I'm sorry, I wasn't aware of where we are.'

'I thought as much', Arthur said, yawning. 'How is your wound? Are you fit enough to keep watch?'

While Merlin put his hand on his injured arm, Arthur yawned again, this time too tired to cover his mouth, and added, 'You won't need to stay up long. Just give me half an hour of sleep and I'll be ready again.'

'I'm ready for that, Arthur, I feel fit.—No, actually, I feel great!', the servant said, and sprang up. The little amount of food and the sleep under the watchful eye of his friend had sufficed to restore his powers.

Arthur was too tired to rejoice in Merlin's recovery. While the servant stretched his legs, the prince lay down and wrapped himself in the rugged cloth that had been warmed by his servant's body.

'Shall I get your blanket?', Merlin asked, but his master didn't answer, for he was already fast asleep.

'Good night', Merlin added, smiling at the sleeper.

He wondered how long he had been asleep and how long Arthur had kept wake at his side. He took a look at the moon, then estimated that Arthur had kept watch during half of the night. Merlin judged it only fair to let his friend sleep till dawn, not just for half an hour.

But until then, there was a _long_ time.

To shorten that time, he decided to take advantage of Arthur's being asleep and to heal their injuries. He couldn't have done that before without raising suspicion, but now that was different: Arthur wouldn't think it strange if his limping was cured after a good night's sleep, and as long as Merlin's injury was bandaged, Arthur wouldn't notice the disappearance of the gash on Merlin's arm.

The servant held his breath and listened to the sounds that were coming from the sleeper on Merlin's left: Arthur's breathing was calm and deep, so he was probably sound asleep. Just to make sure, Merlin said, 'Arthur?'

No answer came, the sorcerer was in the clear.

He pressed his right palm tightly on the wound, and whispered, 'Ic þe þurhhæle!'

The tingling, warm sensation whirring through his flesh was proof that the cut was healed, but still he lifted his left arm thrice and made some rotating movements with it, just to make sure it worked the way it ought to.

Then he went over to Arthur and knelt down next to him. The prince, now sleeping on his left and facing the fire, had been injured in Gormes' castle, when he had accidentally triggered two traps at once: Merlin had succeeded in stopping the arrow that would have otherwise pierced through the knightly hauberk into the royal heart, but the sorcerer had had no time to stop the statue that had suddenly raised its knee and, hitting Arthur's upper thigh, had sent the prince flying. Luckily, the femur wasn't broken or anything, but it caused Arthur to limp, and it probably didn't make riding any more comfortable as well.

Merlin hesitated pressing his hand on his prince's body, because he feared waking him, and he feared the discussion this would engender. ('Why are you rubbing my thigh, Merlin?'—'Uhm, I thought you might be cold, Sire?') But then, he thought of a way that would make sure Arthur wouldn't notice anything: 'Slæp', he murmured.

There was no visible change in the prince, but Merlin knew that until the spell wore off, Arthur wouldn't wake up from a hand's touch.

The sorcerer pressed his right hand on the thigh—biting his tongue when he, for the shortest of moments, thought of letting his hand _accidentally_ slip towards the _crown jewels_ —and cast the same spell he had cast before on his own body.

As the magic did its work, the prince breathed once heavily, then his breathing went back to the calm rhythm of before.

Merlin let his hand linger on his master's thigh for a second—enjoying the unusually intimate closeness to his knight in shining armour, thinking of all the things he would have loved to do _to_ the prince and _with_ the prince—, then sighed, stood up, and started looking for chores that he could do now.

He busied himself by checking the horses, cleaning Arthur's boots (which—for some reason—looked as if the prince had been walking all the way from Gormes' keep instead of riding the distance), filling the water skins at the nearby brook, polishing Arthur's armour, cleaning and honing Arthur's sword and the like—all the thing's he wouldn't ever do if he had anything better to do.

Then he thought it best to look for more firewood and, while he was at it, to search for something for his friend to eat.

The waning moon, though now far above the horizon, didn't offer that much light, and while Merlin did find enough dry wood for the flames to consume, he couldn't find anything suitable for the prince to eat.

But that was no problem for a mighty warlock.

He hunkered down and whispered, 'Growaþ, swammas!' Within a few seconds, chanterelles and penny buns sprouted from the ground. Merlin picked them and went back to the camp, thinking about how to prepare them.

He knew that Arthur wasn't too fond of mushrooms, but it was the only food he could think of that would be inconspicuous: At this time of year, Merlin could have only found mushrooms in the woods: The time for berries, fruits or eggs had long passed.

And meat was no option either: As far as the prince knew, the servant was injured and an unskilled hunter, hardly capable of catching prey during the day. If Merlin were to cook meat, Arthur would inevitably think that it was from a sick or a diseased animal; unless Arthur was starving, he'd never eat that.

But the mushrooms weren't going to be bland, Arthur might like them: When they had raided Gormes' pantry the day before, Merlin had put all foodstuffs they found into his pouch, and while there was only little bread and the like, there were now enough spices in the servant's possession: salt, parsley, some thyme, and even some more exotic ones like pepper and nutmeg. With their help the warlock would be able to create a stew that would be pleasing to the princely prat's picky palate.

But when the preparations were done and stew was simmering, Merlin started to suffer once more the inevitable problem of every person on guard duty: boredom. He stirred the stew, fiddled on his bandage, brushed dust off of his clothes, bit any fingernails he deemed too long, stretched his limbs, scratched whatever needed scratching, or tried to find out how quietly he could clear his throat—but when all was done, hardly any time had passed: The waning moon was slowly, ever so slowly, marching along its path. It was still far from reaching the zenith, and the sun was still far from reaching the horizon.

'The once and future king', he whispered with a smirk, as he gazed at Arthur, who now slept with his head resting on his arm, his mouth slightly opened and a trail of saliva flowing down onto his sleeve. But still, in spite of this rather unbecoming posture, in spite of the shabby blanket that covered his body, in spite of the poor bed he rested on, the young Pendragon managed to emanate in his sleep as much majesty and gravitas as if he were sitting on the throne, holding sceptre and sword, clad in the royal garments, and surrounded by his knights.

Merlin wondered how the prince managed to do that.

He studied his masters face in the flickering light.

It probably had to do with the way Arthur was even now slightly frowning, as if the crown that he was going to wear one day was already weighing down his mind.

But the more Merlin looked, the more he realized: It was not majesty and gravitas that transfigured the prince's face: it was sadness, and maybe fear.

Probably—so Merlin judged—the fear that he wouldn't meet the demands he constantly urged himself to fulfil: to be the perfect son for his father, to become the great wise king his people deserved, with the ability to discern when to be strict and when to show leniency, to be a paragon of prowess and virtue for his knights, and to be the perfect foster brother for Morgana—if Arthur only knew how little that two-faced, back-stabbing witch was deserving of such a devotion.

And Merlin thought of yet another reason for Arthur's sadness: the pain caused by his impossible, forbidden love for a simple servant.

His forbidden love for Gwen.

At least, that's what Merlin believed.

Merlin sighed and went back to quietly stirring the stew, listening for suspicious sounds from the woods, and to simply killing time by gazing in turn at the moon, the stars and the sleeper.

And while he did that, he accidentally joined his friend in the Land of Nod.

He was awakened some time later by his master, who was tossing and turning in his sleep, groaning and whimpering as if he were having a terrible nightmare. Merlin quickly ran to him and woke him up.

Arthur shot up from his bed, panting heavily, sweat glistening on his pale forehead. When he saw his servant kneeling right next to him, he put a shaking arm around Merlin, and exclaimed, 'Merlin! Thank God, you're alive!' In the next moment, realizing the awkwardness of the gesture, he withdrew his arm.

'Well ... of course I am.' Merlin blinked a few times, confused. 'Why shouldn't I?'

'I ... I dreamt that ... that ... that ...', Arthur said, and made a dismissive gesture, 'Nothing. I dreamt of nothing.' Then he glanced at Merlin's bandage and asked with more urgency than was necessary, 'How's that wound of yours? It's not infected or anything?'

Merlin laid his hand on the bandage, knowing fully well that the wound was healed. 'Doesn't seem so, it's not warm or anything.' Teasingly he added, 'But if it were, feel free to hold my eulogy.'

Arthur didn't feel like joking about such matters, not after the nightmare he was just saved from. He ignored the remark and changed the subject. Looking at the campfire and the cooking pot on the fire, he sniffed once and said, 'What's that smell?'

'I found some mushrooms', said Merlin, returning to the fire, 'and now I'm making you breakfast.'

'Mushrooms?', said Arthur. 'You shouldn't have', he added while making a face that said, 'You _really_ shouldn't have.'

'I know they're not your favourite, Arthur, but you've had barely anything to eat yesterday. For now, go back to sleep, and when you wake up, breakfast's going to be ready.'

'I can't sleep anymore.—But if you're tired, I'm ready to keep watch again.' Arthur stood up, and stretched his limbs. He put his right hand on the thigh that had been hurting, and noted with silent glee that the pain was gone.

'No, I'm fine', Merlin said, noting that Arthur had noted. 'Not to forget, the mushrooms need my attention.—But if you can't sleep, let's talk. How about you tell me what you dreamt about. It must have been something _very_ scary', Merlin grinned, 'like that your knights found out that you like silken smallclothes, or that Gwen found out about that scarf of hers you keep under your bed.'

'Shut up, Merlin', the prince commanded. Scowling, he sat down next to his servant, while praying silently that Merlin wouldn't ever discover the real owner of that red scarf that Arthur had filched from Merlin's room when he had, on the King's orders, searched it for magic artefacts. 'My bad dreams are none of your beeswax.—And I'll tell you once more: If I _ever_ find you sniffing around under my bed again, I _will_ have you whipped.'

'I was cleaning your chambers! How could I do that without climbing under your bed?'

Arthur snorted. The _audacity_ with which the servant could lie to his face never ceased to amaze Arthur. 'Don't be ridiculous, _cleaning my chambers_? You don't scrub the corners of the floor, you don't dust the topside of my wardrobe, and my clothes are dirtier after you wash them, but you _clean under my bed_? Do you think me a fool? You were sneaking around!'

Merlin hesitated answering. All could be _so_ much easier if he just told the truth. 'Alright, Sire, I admit, I might have done that. But I _did_ have good reasons.'

'Which you won't tell me', Arthur said, and Merlin shily nodded in agreement. The prince wasn't satisfied with Merlin's answer, but he knew he wouldn't get a better one.

And, truth be told, he wasn't all that annoyed by Merlin's snooping around. In fact, he liked that that young man took such an interest in him. But just to teach him a lesson about the value of privacy, he added, 'You know, the next time you talk in your sleep, I might just stay and listen.'

'I—I—', the servant stuttered and stopped stirring, his eyes widening in apprehension. 'I talk ... in my sleep?'

'Oh yeah.' Arthur felt a bit sorry for Merlin, but at the same time really _enjoyed_ seeing him for once really disconcerted. 'But don't worry, I didn't listen. I only heard you talking about Morgana, and then I left.'

'About Morg—' Under his breath, Merlin whispered, 'Oh God!' Loud, he asked, 'What'd I say?'

'Just your usual prattling. Though it seems to be less filtered. Because when I'm around, you usually don't call her an', Arthur hesitated repeating the insult, 'an "evil witch".'

'Sire, I never—'

'Of course you wouldn't ever say that when awake. Because you know that I'd have you put in stocks for that.—And yet, that's the way you think of her.'

Merlin nodded sheepishly.

'I better not hear you speaking in such a foul tongue of her again', Arthur threatened. 'Even if it's just in your sleep.'

Merlin no longer felt like talking. Instead, he gazed into the stew, reasoning with himself once more whether he shouldn't just tell Arthur.

Tell him that he was a sorcerer. Tell him that Morgana was an evil sorceress that plotted to take over the throne.

And while he was at it, tell him that he loved him.

If Arthur accepted him as a sorcerer, Merlin could thwart Morgana's plans much more easily. He would no longer be forced to act in secrecy; and instead of planning how to help without being noticed, he could just help: If he had been able to use his magic freely that day, Gormes could probably have been taken alive, and neither Arthur nor Merlin would have been injured. And Arthur would finally see that magic can be used for good as well.

On the other hand, if Arthur knew of Merlin's magic, it could just as well mean that Arthur might tell Uther, who'd then have Merlin executed. Then he wouldn't be able to help anybody at all; his life would be forfeit, the fates of Arthur and Albion would be sealed.

Merlin was so deeply immersed in his thoughts, in considering the pros and cons, that he didn't realize that Arthur had been staring at him, had been pondering on him as well.

The one question that was on Arthur's mind was _why_ Merlin wouldn't tell his true motives. He could only think of two possibilities:

Either Merlin's secret was forbidden, or it was not.

Maybe Merlin used to be a thief, maybe he still was—which Arthur didn't consider that unlikely, seeing how the servant always sneaked around the castle and put his nose into other peoples' business. Maybe—less likely, but still possible—maybe Merlin had injured or even killed somebody in self defence, maybe after having accidentally insulted someone with a rash uttering.

There were many forbidden reasons Arthur could think of why Merlin kept his secrets. The only things Arthur could definitely rule out were that his faithful servant was a cold blooded killer, that he was a warlock, or that he was a spy for a neighbouring kingdom: Merlin was too good natured and kind for a killer or a warlock, and too dumb and clumsy for a warlock or a spy.

But whatever it was: If Arthur ever found out that Merlin's secret was indeed something forbidden, he'd have to punish his servant, maybe have him banished, maybe have him put in jail, maybe have him put to death.

Which is _exactly_ why Arthur hoped—hoped with all his heart—that Merlin's secret _was_ forbidden, and that Merlin would keep it secret as long as possible:

As long as the prince knew of nothing illegal, he had no reason to remove Merlin from the court; Arthur could be blissfully ignorant, with Merlin at his side, being wakened in the morning by his cheerful 'Rise and shine', squabbling with him during breakfast, chatting with him about Gwen, being called a 'supercilious prat' and a 'clot pole', and hearing the right things after arguments with the King.

He feared though that the reason for Merlin's secrecy was _not_ forbidden.

Because that would have meant that Merlin didn't _trust_ him and didn't want to share something important with him, maybe that he feared the prince would make fun of him, would blab out his secret, or wouldn't believe him at all.

Well, who could blame Merlin for that? Arthur hardly ever showed his understanding side, and when he did, it was only used to make a following insult even more brutal and more devastating.

That's when the scion realized that now was a good opportunity to change that. They were alone now; within many miles—and quite possibly within many leagues—, there was nobody else. There were no people around in front of which to boast, there was no gain in teasing Merlin. He could tell him something that showed him how much the prince trusted his servant.

He could tell him a secret.

Well, he couldn't tell him _that_ secret, but if he told of the nightmare he had had before, it would certainly make Merlin feel special.

'You really wanna know what I dreamt of?', Arthur asked, brusquely disturbing the silence between them.

Merlin flinched, accidentally dropping his spoon into the mushroom stew. 'Yes, I'd like that very much', he said, and grabbed his knife to fish for his spoon.

'All right.' Arthur took a deep breath, and said, staring at his servant's left arm, where it was bandaged, 'It had to do with you.'

This made Merlin drop his knife into the stew as well. 'Me?', he said, and completely forgot to recover his cutlery. 'What'd I do?'

'Something horrible, but just wait. You'll see.' Arthur cleared his throat. 'I dreamt that we were travelling home from Gormes' tower, and that you had suffered a wound on your arm; just like it really had happened. And we were spending the night at a place very much like this. I was keeping watch while you were trying to sleep. But you couldn't fall asleep, the pain from your wound kept you awake.' Arthur pointed on Merlin's wound, and went on, 'I checked your bandage, and it was hot, because it had become infected.'

'So that's why you asked about my wound when you woke up?'

'Yes, but it's not over yet.' With a grim tone in his voice, he continued, saying, 'That wound caused you a lot of pain, and it just became worse and worse. So we broke camp in the middle of the night and hasted home, so that Gaius could treat you. But we barely made any progress because of the dark, and the wound made you scream and cry, and it putrefied and stank so disgusting that it made you sick. And the stench and your screaming caused your horse to throw you off its back, and you fell down and broke your legs. And when I dismounted and tried to help, you said there's but one thing that could help. You begged me, you _entreated_ me to—'

Arthur paused and looked into the blackness around them, hesitating, not wanting to utter what Merlin had begged for in the nightmare.

Merlin stared at his master. Seeing that the prince seemed to be in anguish just by remembering that dream, Merlin felt an ice cold hand taking hold of his own heart and tearing at it. At the same time he feared that—like many times before—Arthur was just making fun of him:

The prince knew that Merlin wanted to hear kind words from his master, to hear Arthur saying words of respect towards him, words of acknowledgement as a friend. But the prince had that—in Merlin's opinion—disgusting habit of saying things that started like these words, but ended with primitive insults.

Arthur went on, his voice almost failing, 'You begged me to put you out of your misery.'

Merlin swallowed, strongly doubting that Arthur was was just teasing him. 'And did you do it?'

Arthur tried in vain to suppress the horrible images that resurfaced in his mind, of the friend in agony who had begged with tearful eyes to be killed, of the dreadful deed Arthur had done in this dream. He said, 'Seeing how you were suffering a fate worse than death, and seeing that there was no ... I had no choice. With the weapon that had caused your agony ... I ... I ...'

He couldn't say it, the words dying in his throat. But as he looked at Merlin, he saw that the servant had understood. 'And that's when you woke me up.'

'So that's why you were so happy to see me alive ...' Merlin couldn't grasp how terrible this dream was for Arthur—because he didn't know how much he really meant to the prince—, but just seeing the expression of Arthur's eyes gave him a good idea. Filled with contrition, he said, 'I'm sorry I teased you about your dream earlier. Had I known what it really was about ...'

Then they both fell silent.

A minute later, this silence was disturbed by the scratching of a fork on metal, as Merlin, not knowing what he could possibly say, had started fishing for his knife and his spoon in the stew.

When he had recovered and cleaned his utensils, Merlin said, 'Thank you.'

'What for?'

'For telling me. It means a lot to me that you told me of that dream.'

It had meant a lot to Arthur as well that he had finally been this open-hearted to Merlin, but he wanted to forget the mental image of his slain friend—lying on his back, in a pool of blood as red as the scarf—as soon as possible. Therefore, he said, 'I told you one of my dreams. How about you tell me one of yours?' And he quickly added, 'But no nightmares. Something funny, or at least something happy.'

'Well, let me think. I usually don't remember my dreams, because I have no time for that. First thing I have to do after waking up is doing chores for Gaius and you.'

Arthur squinted his eyes at his servant. 'Merlin, I've talked with Gaius. You do your chores half-heartedly for him, and you do your chores half-heartedly for me, which leads me to believe that you have time to think about something else. So I expect you to remember _some_ dreams.'

'My dreams are boring, Sire, really', Merlin lied in order to conceal the real reason he didn't want to tell one: Barely any of his dreams were fit for the prince:

When Merlin's dreams weren't about commanding dragons, fighting mystic monsters, thwarting the ploys of Morgana, or casting spells that changed the face of the earth, they were usually about him making sweet love to Arthur, or about him making love to one of the knights of Camelot, and occasionally of Arthur making love to one of the knights of Camelot. 'They're just as dull as you'd expect a commoner's dreams to be', said the servant.

Arthur knew immediately that Merlin was still lying, still not opening up to him. But Arthur was nonetheless happy that he had made a first step towards Merlin, and that maybe one day his servant would really see him as a friend he could be honest with.

But then Merlin did think of something. 'Well, there's one dream you might like. It's very entertaining.'

'I'm all ears', Arthur said and smiled, eager to hear something personal of Merlin.

Merlin snickered. 'It's funny that you'd say you're all _ears_.—Do you remember the time when the goblin gave you the ears of a donkey?'

Arthur's smile disappeared, which was as good as his saying 'yes'.

Merlin's snickering intensified. 'Of course you do.—So, I dreamt that you had long, floppy ears, that you were braying and so on.'

'I hope that I at least the rest of my body was that of a human.'

'Yes, of course', Merlin said, casually omitting that dream-Arthur also had a donkey's equipment swinging in his smallclothes. 'You snuck into the stables and you were, ahem, trying to court ... one of the mares.' Merlin's snickering slowly turnt into laughter: The more Arthur disliked hearing this dream, the more Merlin enjoyed telling it. 'You were rubbing your nose on her muzzle ... and nibbling at her ears ... and trying to impress her with your hee-hawing ... and you were—'

'I get the general idea', Arthur interrupted him. He tried to hide that he was embarrassed by what Merlin dreamt of, so he feigned taking pride in his dream-ego's sexual prowesses, and said, 'I suppose she was unable to resist my charms?'

Merlin shrugged his shoulders, and added, chuckling, 'Might have been, but before you could have created any Arthur-faced mules, you were yourself mounted by a stallion.'

'You dreamt of my being raped?', Arthur screamed, aghast.

Merlin burst into laughter, 'You _did_ enjoy it, so _technically_ , technically it wasn't _rape_.'

'Alright, that's it, Merlin. I've heard enough', the prince said, commanding silence. 'Let's not talk of dreams anymore.'

While his servant calmed down, the prince searched for another topic to talk about. Dreams were out of the question, as was anything that pertained to horses, donkeys—ungulates in general—, injuries, relationships of any nature and so on. And soon, Arthur found an acceptable one: breakfast.

He sniffed and said, 'Your stew, it smells ..., ahem', he hesitated adding an adjective. Then he sniffed a second time, trying to see if he could identify the mushrooms or the spices by their smell, but to no avail. 'What's in there?'

'Just what I found, some chanterelles and a bunch of penny buns. I had to improvise a bit though. So don't expect too much.'

'I promise you: I won't expect too much, I've eaten your cooking before. ... Still, I really appreciate it. Especially since _I_ should be one the one cooking for _you_ , after what I've done to you.'

'Oh, don't mention it. It hardly hurts anymore', Merlin added with a knowing smile. 'But if it eased your conscience, Sire, you _could_ give me a day off or two.'

'Alas! Poor, poor Merlin', Arthur laughed and patted him on the back, 'You're in a fever and talking nonsense.'

'In that case, I'll take it you won't eat the stew. Who knows what kind of mushrooms I, a delirious loon, might have put in there.' He ate two spoonfuls of stew, and said, hungrily licking his lips, 'Leaves more for me,'

'Hold your hors—Ahem, I mean, wait a minute!', Arthur said, stopping Merlin's hand. Mushroom stew might not have been his favourite dish, but he hadn't eaten anything in what felt like days. 'I couldn't let you eat it either. What if they're poisonous? Finding good servants is such a bother.'

Merlin's jaw dropped when he heard that. 'Did you just say ...' He laughed triumphantly. 'Hah! You admitted I'm a good servant! Despite all your whining about how supposedly inapt I am!'

'I didn't not say that!', Arthur protested out of sheer force of habit. 'I've just grown accustomed to your sub-par level of serving.'

'Which is perfectly adequate for your sub-par level of princing', quipped Merlin.

'Shut up!— Oh, I'm terribly, _terribly_ sorry—you can't. Because even when you sleep, you prattle on!'

Arthur's remark had put a stop to their friendly banter, Merlin fell silent and laid the spoon aside.

The prince thought that Merlin was simply embarrassed by his sleep talking, but little did he know what horror this really meant for his servant. Insulting the king's ward was dangerous enough, but there was a myriad of things Merlin could talk of in his sleep that would put his neck through a noose.

A moment later, the sorcerer asked hesitatingly, 'I ... I didn't say anything else, did I? Like ... I mean, apart from, uhm, you know, that about Lady Morgana.'

'I don't know what you said later. As I said, when I heard you talking, I left. Doesn't feel right to listen in on what you say in your sleep.—Even if it's just you.'

Merlin sighed with relieve, but this respite wouldn't last long.

'I did hear you though saying something strange. "Ic bebíede fealle!" What's it mean?'

Merlin tried keep a straight face, though he felt as if he had been punched in the gut. If Arthur found out that Merlin was whispering spells in his sleep, the warlock was doomed. Shrugging his shoulders, he quickly lied, 'I have no idea. Probably nonsensical gibberish. Maybe you misheard.'

'Yeah, I thought it was just your usual babbling', said Arthur, nodding. But a second later, he added, 'But the thing is, I've heard it before, somewhere. And I can't rid myself of the idea that it is important.—I'll ask father, he might know ... I'm _sure_ I heard it in some other, some important context.'

A sudden breeze made the flames of the campfire lash at Merlin's feet, as if the sorcerer were already bound to the stake: Without any doubt, King Uther were immediately to recognize the language of the Old Religion; just by asking his father, the prince would inadvertently condemn his truest friend to die.

'Merlin, are you alright?', Arthur asked. 'All of a sudden, you turnt pale.'

'That must be the light', the servant answered, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. 'I feel great.'

'Are you sure?' Arthur suddenly got a very unsettling idea and said, 'Maybe there _was_ something wrong with the mushrooms!—It's dark, maybe you accidentally _did_ put poisonous ones in the stew!—Aren't there are poisonous mushrooms that look like chanterelles?'

Merlin hesitated answering: If Arthur thought him dying, maybe he'd forget about the spell. But the warlock couldn't possibly do that to his friend. Trying to sound as healthy as possible, he said with trembling voice, 'I'm alright, I'm just ...' He searched strenuously for any good excuse and praised his wit when he suddenly found one. 'I'm trying not to insult your royal nostrils by breaking wind right next to you.'

Arthur laughed with relieve, patting him on the back. 'Oh, well, that's a relief.—Thank you for your restraint. I'll give you a moment then', he said and walked briskly away, silently chuckling about how he had mistaken _that_ for a life threatening situation.

While the prince was walking innocently around and checked the surroundings, the servant sat tormented in the camp. He had to find a way to dissuade Arthur from talking to this about Uther. But what could he do?

He could tell Arthur to ask Gaius about the spell. Gaius would immediately recognize the spell as well, but he would cover up for Merlin; and maybe he'd come up with something innocuous as well. But there would still be the possibility that Arthur talked about this with Uther; Uther knew about Gaius's magic, so Gaius himself wouldn't be endangered, but Merlin's life would be at risk nonetheless. So this was no option.

Also, another problem had to be eliminated: Whatever excuse Merlin or Gaius would make up, it would have explain why Arthur was so convinced that he had heard these words before, without disclosing that it was the spell that Merlin had used to incapacitate Gormes.

'Oh, bugger—', the servant finally said to himself. 'I'll have to tell him that I'm a warlock' Looking into the distance, where he vaguely saw Arthur's silhouette, he added, 'I'd rather tell him that I love him. He wouldn't kill me for that.'


	3. Chapter 3 – Feeling better now?

CHAPTER THREE — FEELING BETTER NOW?

* * *

'Feeling better now?', Arthur asked as he returnt to the campfire a minute later.

'Not really. But for other reasons', said Merlin, gesturing the prince to sit down next him.

Arthur did as bidden and looked at his servant, curious. 'But the mushrooms were alright, weren't they?'

'There wasn't anything wrong with them.' Merlin took a deep breath, and said, 'Arthur, I have to confess something to you. And I beg of you to let me finish what I have to say before you do anything. You may get angry at me afterwards, you may chastise me in any way you deem adequate—but hear me out first.'

Arthur raised an eyebrow, wondering what might be on Merlin's conscience. Then he nodded and said, slightly snarling, 'Alright, but after this kind of introduction, I _promise_ you that I _will_ get angry at you and that I _will_ chastise you.' He added, clenching his fist, 'And I'm not talking about being pelted with fruits by commoners.'

Merlin cleared his throat, trying in vain to get rid of the frog that sat there obstinately. 'Arthur, I always considered you a friend, and I know—though you've never said it—I know you don't think of me as a mere manservant, you consider me your friend as well. And I want to be worthy of your friendship.'

Arthur smiled genially, utterly oblivious to the fatal sentence he would hear in a few moments' time, and internally laughing at the idea that he considered Merlin a mere friend. 'What are—'

The servant raised his hand, ordering his master to silence. Averting his eyes, he said, 'Our friendship ...', he took another deep breath, 'our friendship ... is based on a lie.'

The prince's smile disappeared instantly, his inner laughter died.

Merlin went on, saying slowly, 'And I fear dire consequences if I don't set that straight.—I've kept it secret, not only from you but from all of Camelot. Hardly anybody knows it, knows my true nature.'

The sorcerer made a long pause to summon his courage.

But the pause was long enough to allow the prince a hasty conclusion: 'true nature'—why would Merlin have chosen these words unless he was talking about the same affliction that had befallen Arthur?

Merlin stared at his hands, he was unable to look at his friend. 'Because my nature is forbidden, because many people don't like it. Some see it as a sort of punishment, others as pure evil.'

The heart in the royal chest started racing. Arthur couldn't think of anybody who'd say that the love of a man for another man could be purely evil—whatever the object: love was love and therefore _purely good_ —, but there was no doubt left in him: Merlin was going to say that he shared Arthur's nature. And why would Merlin confess his nature to Arthur unless he shared Arthur's feelings as well?

The prince's cheeks flushed.

The servant went on, his voice had become full of anxiety and fear. 'And I know that you belong to those people who dislike this nature as well.'

'Wha—?', Arthur exclaimed, unable to restrain himself. He had no idea what made Merlin believe that. 'When did I ever say anything like that about inverts?'

'Inverts?' The wizard's head swivelled around, locking his eyes with Arthur's. 'Inverts?', he repeated. 'You think I like men?—Why would you believe that?'

Only in his mind, Merlin added, 'Apart from its being true ...'

'Well,' Arthur said, stretching the L-sound, 'you don't? I-I just assumed ... I mean, there were _signs_ ... How you always stick close to me and the knights ... how, how you never had a girlfriend ...'

Merlin was not ready yet to talk about his love for Arthur, and at the moment he deemed it more urgent to discuss his magic. So he resolutely lied, 'Well, I'm _not_!'

And while he said these words, he felt as if his heart was being torn out of his chest.

Arthur felt the same: This resolute 'Well, I'm _not_!' was not only the death blow to the tiny little hope he had left of Merlin's becoming more than a friend; it also meant that Merlin was going to say something that would force the prince to deprive himself of his friend's proximity, because whatever _nature_ Merlin had been talking about: it was a forbidden one, and not the one Arthur had hoped for.

Both turnt away their heads: Merlin to hide the burning crimson hue of his cheeks, Arthur to hide the deathly pallor of his face.

'I've ... interrupted you, Merlin. Go on', said the prince with faltering voice, bracing himself for the worst.

The warlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

The moment of truth had come, there was no more turning back. He finally would say it, he would finally say what he had wanted to say since he had entered Arthur's services. His hands started trembling, his heart beat as if a blacksmith was hammering on his chest.

'I ... I'm a warlock, Arthur.'

The prince slowly turnt his head around. 'I beg your pardon?' He raised one corner of his mouth, as he considered the possibility that Merlin was pulling his leg.

The warlock, still looking away, repeated the sentence.

'You're joking, aren't you?', the prince asked, _hoped_. But then his face grew stern, his cheeks lost what little colour was left in them. _'Look at me!_ ', he hissed. When Merlin ignored that order, he grabbed him forcibly by the back of his head and made him obey.

'Ow, you're hurting me!'

Arthur took no heed of Merlin's complaint. He had hoped that his servant was making a bad joke, but the more he analysed the eyes that fearfully evaded his gaze, the more he realized that he had nurtured a snake in his bosom—a snake that was in league with the scum that had killed, among many others, Igraine, mother to Arthur and light of his father's life.

'A warlock?', he snorted, tightening the grip on Merlin's head and fighting the urge to punch this abomination in the face. 'Ridiculous. You, a pitiful excuse for a servant, you're way too stupid to be a sorcerer at all, let alone to conceal this fact successfully from my father and me all this time.'

Merlin had expected that Arthur wouldn't believe him that easily, so to make a long discussion short, he freed himself from his masters grip and grabbed one of the ash twigs that had been lying on the ground next to his feet. 'Look here', he said to Arthur, then, staring at the twig, incantated, 'Leofa of niowe!'

The warlock's eyes glowed golden, and within a few seconds, the brown, dead leaves turnt green and alive.

'So—So-Sorcery!', Arthur gasped.

'Sorcery', Merlin repeated calmly, and laid his hand on Arthur's shoulder. The muscles there grew tight immediately. A second later, Arthur forcefully knocked that hand away, ignoring that—as far as he knew—Merlin's arm was injured, and sprang to his feet. Merlin got up and followed him, until he saw where Arthur was heading: his sword.

Arthur quickly unsheathed the steel, swivelled around and directed the point at his servant's throat. He was unable to think at all; never before had he felt such rage, never before such betrayal.

But then again, never before had he loved somebody as much as Merlin.

'Sorcery!', he shouted, his cracking voice echoing through the forest.

Merlin flinched and made a few steps backwards, the cold metal following each of his movements. 'You promised you'd hear me out!'

Arthur's hand was shaking in anger, his sword was drawing unsettlingly close. 'Go on then, warlock.—But choose your words wisely', he swallowed audibly, 'for they're gonna be your _last_.'

'I'd rather you lowered your sword,' Merlin said, raising his unarmed hands. 'Please, Sire, Arthur, believe me, never have I wished you or anybody any harm! Just like you, my only desire is to work for the good of the people!'

'Why should I still trust you? Why should I still believe you, warlock?—You lied to me! You betrayed me!' With his free hand, he tore at his hair, as he snarled, 'Such a despicable, vile, disgusting—! Under mine own eyes!'

Merlin took a little solace in the fact Arthur had said 'still trust' and 'still believe': If the prince acknowledged having trusted the _human_ Merlin, he might be able to trust the _wizard_ Merlin.

'You should still trust me because you _know_ me! I only hid my magic, but I never hid my personality! I'm still the same person you knew all along, the sameself person who has spent hours polishing your armour, scrubbing the floors of your chambers, tending to your wounds whenever you were injured, who has saved your live so many times!—You wondered earlier, what the meaning of "Ic bebíede fealle!" was. Let me tell you: It was the spell that caused the ceiling in Gormes' tower to collapse!—It was not coincidence that saved your life yesterday, it was _I_!—And don't you wonder why your leg no longer hurts? It was _I_ as well who healed it!—And if anything, you should trust me _more_! Because now that I have told you my secret, my life is in your hands!'

Arthur could see the truth of that and calmed down a bit: If the warlock had ulterior motives, this was an empty utterance, but if— _if_ —Merlin had indeed honest intentions, this was the ultimate proof of trust.

He was about to lower the sword, when Merlin blurted out, 'And believe me, if I wished you dead, you'd have died a long time ago.'

'Now would be a good moment to kill me then, warlock', Arthur hissed, his blue eyes burning once more with wrath.

The blade, sharpened by the prince and the servant just a few hours before, crept closer by another inch. Merlin felt a bead of sweat trickling down his throat, but when he wiped it away with trembling hands, he saw that it wasn't sweat, but that it was blood, that the steel had nicked the skin so close to his wind pipe.

Of course, Merlin had ways of escaping this situation unscathed. He could have dulled the sword's edges, or he could have made the sword turn into sand, but he feared that this might just cause the situation to escalate: Robbed of his weapon, Arthur would have used his fists and would have tried to beat the bloody warlock into a bloody pulp. And then Merlin would have to restrain his master using magic, and then there would be no more talking him; Arthur, feeling powerless in the presence of what he considered a mortal threat, would never listen to whatever a warlock had to say. And then all would be irretrievably lost—Albion, the destiny, the friendship.

No, the right course of action was to let Arthur act on his own will: He was dangerous now, but he could be reasoned with. If Merlin used magic against him, the prince would become unreasonable and really dangerous.

'Arthur, please', he said, making slowly a few steps backwards, 'what would you have me—'

Merlin interrupted himself as he, looking at the sword's sharp edges instead of where he was walking, stumbled over the stones that hemmed the campfire. He spilled the stew, extinguishing the flames, and fell backwards, painfully hitting his head on a rock.

He would have gotten up, had Arthur not immediately rushed forward and placed the tip of his sword on Merlin's breastbone, ready to cut into flesh and bone and heart. 'You're clumsy as ever', Arthur sneered.

'I am, aren't I?', Merlin said, rubbing the back of his head. 'And haven't I ever been? Because I _still am_ the same, Sire! The same Merlin you always knew, your faithful servant!'

'I never knew you, warlock!', the prince growled. 'You're from a cunning race. It's easy for the sly to play the clumsy knucklehead.—You gained my trust, because you want to use me for something evil. I may not be smart enough to understand your schemes, or why you told me of your curse, but it can't be good. I ought to kill you right now.'

As he said these words, Arthur had forced himself to sound convinced: Because he wasn't. He couldn't believe that he had misjudged Merlin so gravely, that he had put so much trust and so much love into a two-faced, back-stabbing creature. And he hoped now that he was just having another nightmare, caused by his bad conscience, to give him retrospectively an excuse for having slashed at Merlin's arm; a nightmare, from which he would be awakened any moment now by a simple, plain Merlin, whose only magic ability was making the prince fall in love with him.

And as much as the thought of being betrayed by Merlin hurt, the thought of hurting that man in front of him hurt just as much; that man whom he could barely see now, now that the only light source was the thin slice of the moon; that man, who was lying flat on his back, whose trousers were soaked in stew—so horribly similar to the corpse that he had been forced to see in his dream; that man whom he loved so dearly; that man whom he felt obliged to kill for belonging to that accursed, execrable magic race.

Merlin, however, was unaware of Arthur's conflict:

As far as he knew, he might have been dead in a few moments' time. 'My life is at your mercy, Sire,' he said, 'Do what you think is right. If you believe that you should kill me, do so; take my life, it's yours. And you know what? If killing me makes you the great ruler that you are ought to be one day, then I gladly lay down my life. Because I care about you and the people of Camelot more than I care about mine own life and mine own happiness.' He paused, then added reproachfully, 'And because dying by your sword can't hurt more than hearing what you just said.'

Merlin closed his eyes, spread his arms and waited, waited for the unyielding steel tip to split his chest and to end his life.

And while he waited, he tried to recall fond memories, so that he would shed his mortal coil in peace. He thought of his mother Hunith, of his childhood friend William, of Gwen, whom he loved like a sister, and of Gaius, who had become like a father to him.

And his mind focussed on Arthur; on the Arthur who had become his dearest friend, who liked to laugh, and who loved to tease his servant, and who had become the single most important person in Merlin's life; not on the scared, hurting prince in front of him, who might be about to do something he'd regret for the rest of his life.

And at that moment, Merlin would have died peacefully, even with his breast split asunder; Arthur's weapon might penetrate his body, but Merlin's mind was protected by an armour harder than any sword.

Yet, no sword came, and instead of the cracking of his bones, Merlin heard a clang and a thud. He opened one eye and then the other, and saw in the dim silvery light that the sword was stuck in the ground, next to him, and that Arthur had fallen on his knees.

'Why, Merlin? Why do you do this to me?', whispered Arthur on the verge of tears. 'Oh God, why did you tell me?'

Merlin allowed himself barely any time to enjoy that Arthur had stopped addressing him as 'warlock', quickly rushed to his master's side and knelt down next to him. Once more, he put his hand his masters shoulders, and this time, he was not pushed away.

'I had to; you were about to ask your father about my spell. And Uther would have recognized the language of the Old Religion and then _he_ would have told you that I'm a sorcerer. And I just couldn't bear the thought of that happening. That was something I had to do myself.'

'And then what? Did you think I'd shrug my shoulders and everything would be like before?—I'm obliged to report you to the King, and he'll have you executed!' A tear ran down his cheek. 'You 'll be dead, and I'll have to live the rest of my days with your blood clinging to my hands!' In horror, he stared as his hands, as if they were smeared with Merlin's steaming blood.

'You don't have to tell the King. And I know you won't, because the law on sorcery is unjust.'

Arthur lowered his hands and unconsciously wiped them on his trousers. Then he took a deep breath to calm himself. 'Merlin, that's not the point. I'm in no position to decide what's just and what's not, I mustn't ignore a law just because I don't like it.'

'That's rich, coming from you. Because you _never ever_ ignored a rule before.'

'We're not talking here about sneaking out of the castle; sorcery is a major crime, punishable by death at the stake; the law against sorcery is the _fundament_ of my father's rule!—I don't like what I have to do, but I can't let my ... sympathy towards you protect you from justice. What kind of King would I be one day if I exempted friends from law and justice?'

Merlin shook his head. 'Don't give me that nonsense. That law has nothing to do with justice, and you know it, don't deny that!' He grabbed Arthur's shoulder more tightly. 'The Arthur Pendragon I know wouldn't ever do what he _knows_ is wrong, he's better than that.—And he knows that it's wrong to punish me for something I _am_ instead of for something I _did_!—What I _did_ was _hiding_ my magic. And if you think that is wrong, then go ahead. Tell Uther, or kill me right here.'

Arthur, his shoulders slouching, sighed and thought about what to do, whether to kill a friend whose only crime was being honest, or to condone a Justice that wouldn't treat everybody equally, or whether it was justifiable to ignore a law he deemed unjust.

Merlin waited patiently for him to say something.

A few minutes passed, and Arthur still hadn't said anything. The sorcerer went to the fireplace and used a spell to rekindle the fire, sceptically watched by Arthur: Because it was hard for the prince to see the person he loved doing what he had been raised to hate.

Shaking his head, he said with a sad ring to his voice, 'That's so easy for you? You just whisper "Forbærne!" and things start to burn?'

'It takes some practice', Merlin said, nodding, 'but once you've gotten used to it, it gets very easy. Like whistling or, I suppose, parrying an attack; you don't even think about it anymore, you just do it.'

'And you've been doing ... _this_ ... all the time?' Arthur couldn't help but think that his home, that Camelot had somewhat been sullied and stained by Merlin's vile magic. And at the same time he couldn't imagine that anything done by Merlin—this faithful, just, gentle being—could be vile.

'Well, of course not _all_ the time, I have to keep it secret. But for example yesterday, I did so many times. All the traps you activated in Gormes' tower, they didn't miss us out of coincidence.'

'I see ... And that wound?', Arthur said, nodding at the wizard's arm.

Merlin undid the bandage. Beneath the bandage and between the torn blue fabric, the skin was crusted with blood, but when Merlin wiped that away, there wasn't even a scar. 'While you were asleep, I healed not only your leg, but my arm as well.'

'But when we left the tower, you were on the verge of death', Arthur said, almost whispering, and Merlin nodded again. 'You risked your own life, because you didn't want me to know?'

Merlin pointed at Arthur's sword, still sticking in the ground behind him. 'I couldn't let you know, Arthur.—Not because I wished to deceive you, but because I had no other choice.'

Arthur fell silent again.

On the one hand, he felt the urge to strike the sorcerer: If he had used his magic earlier, Arthur wouldn't have had to go through the ordeals he had gone through—the pangs of remorse after having slashed Merlin, the fear of indirectly causing Merlin's death, the nightmare where he had directly killed Merlin. None of that had needed to happen.

On the other hand, he felt the urge to hug his friend: Because he had preferred jeopardizing his own life over hurting Arthur.

But still: All this had not changed the one thing that was really of importance beyond the mercurial longings of a simple mortal human, the one thing that was being violated by Merlin's sheer existence—the law.

He suddenly felt Merlin's hand on his shoulder and heard his servant's voice. 'Let me stress it one more time, Sire: Without my magic, you wouldn't ever be King. My "evil" sorcery has saved the lives of you, of your father, of Guinevere so many times.' He took the twig that he had restored to life, sat down in front of Arthur, and displayed the living plant in his hands, as he softly and calmly said, 'My sorcery is a tool, very much like the steel of your sword.—Steel doesn't decide whether it's going to be cast into a sword or into a plough, whether it's going to be used to kill or to protect or to cultivate. _People_ make these decisions.'

Arthur heaved a deep sigh, then said, faintly smiling. 'I see that counselling is not your strength: I am on the horns of a dilemma, having to decide between loyalty to the realm on one hand and loyalty to my friend on the other hand, and you keep on making this decision harder and harder and harder.'

Gleefully, Merlin heard the word 'friend' used with respect to himself and took Arthur's hands into his own. Smiling reassuringly, he said, 'But that's a _good_ thing.—It is a difficult decision you have to make, it mustn't be made lightly, and you don't look for the easy exit, you keep on searching for the right answer, no matter how painful.' His eyes glowed in the non-magic way, as he finished, ' _That's_ what sets you apart, Arthur, that's what makes you so _special_!'

The prince gazed, sunken in thought, at the small, green twig, that might have been hewn off of a tree by a sword, that had been restored to life by magic. Finally, he raised his head, looked at Merlin, and asked, 'Have you said everything you wish to tell me?'

Merlin nodded. 'Yes, sire.'

'Then it's my turn to tell you something.' Arthur got up, looked down on Merlin, then turnt around and said with a grave and stern voice, 'You lied to me, betrayed me. You are a warlock.' His voice lost its previous gravity and became shaky—as shaky as Merlin's knees had become. Still without looking at him, Arthur went on, 'As soon as I return to Camelot, the King will hear about this and he will order your execution.'

' _Sire!_ ', Merlin exclaimed as he felt himself falling into a deep void. He sprang up, but his legs almost collapsed under the thin wizard's weight. 'You can't—'

' _Shut up!_ ', Arthur shouted. Still without turning around to face his friend, he went on. 'I no longer have any need for your services, and I hereby release you of all your duties. If you cherish your life and if you really think of me as a friend, you will leave this kingdom, you won't ever return and you will live your days in peace, away from Camelot.' He waved his hand, signalling him to leave, 'And now go. I don't care whither, and I don't want to know. Just take your horse, and go!'

'Make me', Merlin said, defying the order, still barely able to stand. He had thought that hearing Arthur's calling him despicable and vile and disgusting was painful, but now he knew that these insults were harmless compared to what Arthur had said just now; banishing Merlin might save him from the stake, but the words hurt him just as much as if the fire were consuming his flesh.

Still without looking at the wizard, the prince shouted, 'I'm the future King, you will obey me!'

'You are no king, I'm not your subject and no longer your servant, so I don't care about any of your orders. I'm not going to leave you. Not now, not ever.'

Merlin waited for a retort. But Arthur just stood there, silently, facing away. The wizard said, 'We are _destined_ to be together, we are two sides of the same coin. I am a wizard, yes, but my magic can be your valuable asset in making Camelot a better place for her people, in healing the wounds of her past, in protecting her against whatever threats the future might hold.'

Arthur repeated, still with quavering voice, still looking away, ' _Leave me be!_ —Goodness, you'd think someone with ears like yours had better hearing!'

Merlin had gotten used to Arthur's insults, but that the prince wouldn't even deign to look at him, that was the real slap to the face. He stepped forward, grabbed his former master once more by the shoulders and forcibly turnt him around. But he forgot what he had wanted to say when he saw Arthur's bloodshot, tearful eyes. 'Sire, you're crying!'

Arthur sniffed. 'Still the keen observer of the obvious. What King could I be without the aid of a halfwit like you?'

'Why are—'

'Why? WHY? What do you think? You're my closest and my best friend, and I'm forced to banish you!'

Merlin spaced out: _The closest and best friend._ So much had he wanted to hear these words from him, so little had he wanted them to hurt the prince.

'Because of my position, everybody admires whatever I do, stands in awe of whatever I say.' He sniffed again. 'Even the knights hold back when we exercise, and they don't criticize me when I make a bad decision. But you ...', he said, looking deeply into Merlin's eyes, ' _you_ were different! You never really cared that I am the prince, you never buttered me up, you never sugar-coated a truth I didn't want to hear. When I behaved like an arse, you told me.—You have not only been my best friend, you've been my only _real_ friend.'

'I had no idea ...', Merlin whispered.

'And that's why I'm crying: I don't want to lose you!—Maybe you've lied about some things, but who hasn't?'

' _Who!_ ', an owl hooted suddenly, interrupting Arthur and startling Merlin.

The prince directed his eyes at his servant's and said, talking slowly, 'We all have our secrets.' His eyes wandered down to Merlin's lips. 'And we don't talk about them because it might hurt the people we care about, or because we fear how they might react.'

Merlin wanted to say something, but Arthur raised his hand, signalling him to wait, before he went on, saying, 'I know how it is to keep such a secret ... Because ... '

He laid his hand on Merlin's shoulder and cleared his throat. 'Because', he repeated, intent on letting this word be followed by the words 'I love you'. But at the last moment, a completely different thought struck his mind.

Vigourously, he said, 'Are you any good at it? Magic, I mean.'

'Am I—What ... Would it make any difference?', Merlin asked, oblivious to how close he had been to hearing the words he wished to hear more than anything else. 'Like, if I were a mighty magician, you'd keep me close 'cause my forbidden powers might come in handy?' He added, smirking, 'Or is it that you'd fear upsetting a mighty warlock?'

Arthur shook his head, 'No, no, no, it's not about that, I've made my mind up about you.—I might have reacted a bit rash before, and I apologize for that. I don't blame you for keeping your secret. And while I still can't say that I'm too fond of your kind, I'll concede that if there is at least one sorcerer worthy of my trust, that he is you.'

'Are you saying that ...'

He looked into Merlin's eyes, put his right hand on his heart, and said, 'Merlin, your secret shall be safe with me.'

'Oh, thank you!' Merlin shouted. 'Thank you, thank you, thank you!' Half smiling, half laughing with joy, he grabbed Arthur's hand and shook it, but then, feeling that this gesture didn't suffice, hugged him tightly, pressed his friend firmly on his bosom, and jumped gleefully. 'Thank you!', he exclaimed once more. 'You don't know what this means to me, to finally be able to be honest with you! I know, this is a huge sacrifice for you, and I promise, I _promise_ , Arthur, that I will strive to be worthy of your trust. You shan't rue this.'

Arthur hugged Merlin in return, feeling immensely happy for his friend. 'Had anyone else asked this favour of me, I wouldn't have agreed to it.' Then he pushed at Merlin's chest until they were an arm length apart, and said, once more serious, 'But you still haven't answered my question.'

Still laughing, Merlin asked, 'What question?'

'Are you any good at magic?'

Merlin didn't want to brag, so he just said, 'Well, since I don't have that much contact with other warlocks, I don't know.—You know, with magic being forbidden and such.—But I have reason to believe that I am quite skilled. Or at least that I have great potential, Sire.—But why do you ask? What's troubling you?'

'Keeping your secret might not be as unselfish as you think.—You see, I had hoped that your magic might help me overcome—', he cleared his throat, 'a _personal_ problem.'

Merlin smiled, 'Go on, shoot.' He spread his arms and said, 'My magic is at your command.'

Arthur sat down again, his shoulders slouching again. Right away, Merlin sat down next to him.

The prince said, after heaving a deep sigh, 'As I was trying to say before, you are not the only one who has been keeping a secret.'

'Let me guess. You like—Gwen', Merlin said, drawling the name. He chuckled, and went on, prattling cheerfully, 'Don't worry, that secret's safe with me as well.—Though it hardly is a secret. Anybody with eyes in their head could see that.—And she likes you, too. But that's not unusual, every woman in Camelot—unless she were blind and deaf—has at least a little crush—'

Arthur stopped Merlin's babbling and determinedly said, 'Merlin, I need you to unqueer me.'

'To un-...—unwhat you? Are you not feeling well, Sire? Don't worry, it's probably just cause you've hardly eaten anything for a whole day. You're just not used to feeling hungry.'

'Don't play the fool.—Or do you really not understand?'

When Merlin shook his head, Arthur went on, 'I thought you of all would have noticed!'

The magician was at a loss. He _did_ have an idea about what his master could have been talking about, but that was absolutely impossible. Arthur—the idea, the epitome of all that made a man a man—couldn't be ...

'Sire, I ... I don't—'

'I am queer! I like men!—And I need you to change that!'

'You are ... ? I mean, like, as in ...' Merlin, blushing, fumbled for words, but since none came to his dumbfounded mind, he thrice moved his extended index fingers against each other in a way that he thought expressed what he meant.

'For crying out loud—you can't be this obtuse!', Arthur exclaimed, exasperated, cupped his wizard's cheekbones, blushed, drew Merlin's face closer to his and tenderly kissed him.


	4. Chapter 4 – Oh - You are - I see

CHAPTER FOUR — OH ... YOU ARE ... I SEE ...

* * *

'Oh ...', said the wizard, as their lips parted. 'You are ... I see ...'

'You do? I seriously doubt that', Arthur said, feigning annoyance, his hands still touching the blushing cheeks of his servant, his mind concentrating on remembering every single sensation: How warm Merlin's lips had felt compared to the cold air, the surprised moan that had escaped his servant's throat, the way he had opened his eyes when the kiss had—way too soon—come to an end.

The prince cherished every single moment because—so he thought—the kiss he had just stolen from Merlin would be the only one, ever.

'I—I do!', Merlin hastily repeated, 'I do ... I do see why that might be a problem.'

Merlin was lying. He hadn't been listening, he had no idea what might be a problem, or what Arthur was talking about, and he would probably have agreed even if Arthur had explained the need to unearth every carrot in the kingdom, paint it indigo and stick it back into the ground: Because Arthur— the prince of Camelot, his best friend, his secret love—liked men. Because by kissing him, Arthur had just made one of Merlin's dreams come true. Because Merlin could still feel the imprint of Arthur's lips lingering on his own.

And most of all: Because Arthur had _kissed_ him to say what he had meant to say. There had been no real need to do that: Arthur could have just repeated that he liked men, maybe with words more common and less equivocal than 'queer' and 'invert'.

But the prince hadn't: He had chosen this most intimate way to deliver his message.—Why would he have done that, unless it was for the simple reason that he had wanted to do that all along?

Resolving to find out later whether Arthur was hiding another sweet secret, the servant directed his attention away from the prince's lips towards the words that were leaving them.

However, he did so without replacing the entranced expression on his face, which prompted Arthur to say, 'Yes, of course you understand my predicament. But just in case you don't, let me explain.'

The prince cleared his throat, trying to rid his tone of all traces of excitement that were left by the kiss, so as not to show how much he had really yearned for it: A few moments before he might have been ready to confess his love for Merlin, but now he had realized that he didn't want his servant to know of his tender feelings:

Firstly, he was too proud to live with somebody who'd know of, but not reciprocate his feelings.

Secondly, because if the lovably snarky and unfortunately not-queer Merlin were ever to find out, Arthur wouldn't hear the end of it. (Arthur was sure that if Merlin knew, then—for example—the next time he'd threaten him with a good hiding, the servant would say, 'You're really going to have me whipped? Well, Sire, whatever turns you on.' Then Merlin would bend over and spank his own bottom, saying, 'Nhn, I've been a naughty, nhn, naughty boy.'—While Arthur would have considered this very arousing under different circumstances, he wouldn't have enjoyed such a tease at all.)

And lastly, he feared that it might hurt Merlin: That it might hurt him in the same way that Arthur suffered from not being able to reciprocate a certain handmaiden's love. He loved Gwen as much as he loved Morgana, and he hated that he couldn't make her happy the way she wanted to, by loving her in return, in the same way he loved Merlin. That inability caused Arthur pain, and he didn't want to inflict this on his servant as well.

The prince explained with a serious voice the cause his troubles. 'My being an invert _will_ be a problem, a big one! I'm going to be King one day, so I need an _heir_ —a legitimate son, born in wedlock—to rule in my stead once I'm gone! Otherwise, upon my death, there will be bloodshed when claimants fight for the throne. I'd name Morgana my successor, but firstly she's a woman and secondly she's not of Pendragon blood; many lords won't accept her.'

Merlin suppressed his urge to add a third reason to Arthur's list: her being an evil, deceitful witch.

The prince went on, saying, 'Instead, they'd rally behind other male Pendragons—uncles of mine, distant cousins—, or try to usurp the throne for themselves by right of conquest, in any case bringing harm to Camelot! That's why I _need_ an heir, and', he joined his hands in a praying gesture, 'that's where I _beg_ of you to help me, Merlin!'

'You said, "Unqueer me" ', said the servant as he understood Arthur's wish, hoping that he'd misunderstood. 'You want me to ... to make you love women, so that you can beget such an heir?'

Arthur nodded, thinking that this would be a good solution: If he were able to love girls, he would no longer be plagued by his love for someone who couldn't love him back ('Well, I'm _not!_ ', the servant had said), and instead the prince would be able to find bliss in the cheerful, gentle, warm smile of Gwen's.

For although he had found out that he loved a warlock—one of that hateful kind he had despised since the day of his birth—, his love for Merlin was persisting: because the love he bore for his servant was of that never-faltering, unconditionally loving kind that asks no questions.

For obvious reasons, the wizard's opinion on changing the prince's preferences differed greatly. And Arthur might have seen the signs of that: Because the servant had not in the least resisted to being kissed. Instead, he was only reluctant when Arthur had separated their lips.

So, Merlin was very glad that there was no magic capable of fulfilling Arthur's wish: Otherwise he would have felt obliged to help his friend in need, even if it had meant sacrificing his own happiness. He shook his head and said, 'Arthur, I can't help you.—Magic is powerful, but against _love_ , it is as about as useless as a royal decree. I'm sorry.'

Despondently, Arthur let his head hang.

'But I fail to see the problem, Arthur. I'm sure you're not going to be the first king who had this problem, and that there were many children born to fathers and mothers who had no carnal interest in their spouses.' For a moment, Merlin imagined himself sharing a bed with a woman, and then added, chuckling, 'Or do you find women so disgusting that you couldn't, ahem, _maintain "pressure"_?'

'Get your mind out of the gutters!', Arthur said with a scowl, shoving at Merlin's side. ( _That_ surely wasn't his problem: The prince had many ideas—most of which involved the person sitting next to him, some of which _did_ involve spanking—that would help him accomplish this most heroic of deeds.) 'It's so difficult for me because I couldn't promise a woman everlasting love, knowing fully well that it I'd be lying.'

'Oh ...', Merlin said, then smiled gently and said, 'Sire, you're from a very rare kind: The only person you don't care about is yourself.' But then, his smile disappeared. 'And if there were _anything_ I could do—anything at all, with magic or without it—, I'd do it. For _you_ , I'd do it.' And he finished, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders, 'But there isn't.'

'Then Camelot will be doomed', Arthur said bleakly. 'Even if I became the great king you keep on babbling about, after my death it will all be lost'

The prince fell silent and stared into the fire, at the flames that were consuming the firewood, taken from trees that had maybe grown for hundreds of years, so very similar to the fire of Arthur's passions that were threatening to consume the long history of Camelot and turn her into grey, cold ashes.

But then he felt Merlin's reassuring hand on his shoulder. 'Oh, come on, Arthur, giving up this easily doesn't become you.'

'What do you suggest, then?', Arthur said, still staring into the flames.

'Well, it's easy. We just need a woman who's ready to marry you, even though she knows you don't love her, and that you'd sleep with her only because you must, and who'd be ready to keep this secret as well.'

'Do you _ever_ listen to yourself talking?'

'Uhm ... Well, haha, _maybe_ it's not _that_ easy.'

Merlin's carefree laughter upset and angered the prince, for he had been through a lot of anguish and sorrows because of this problem. He shoved at Merlin's shoulders, scolding, 'What is _wrong_ with you? That's no laughing matter!—What woman that would accept these conditions?'

A name immediately surfaced in Merlin's mind. 'I can think of one.'

'Oh, don't say it, Merlin', Arthur hissed, shaking his head and clenching his fist. 'Don't you _dare_ saying her name.'

Without saying her name, Merlin said calmly, 'She loves you, she'd want you to be happy, and she might just agree to such a scheme.—She is very much like you, you know. She cares about other people more than she does about herself.—And if the both of you agreed to a marriage that was just for show, it would solve most of your problems: The people of Camelot would have a king after you, and since this king would be raised by you, he'd be a good one too. You'd have this sorrow off your shoulders and be able to concentrate on important matters.—The mere proposition would surely be a heavy blow for Gwe-, I mean, for _her_. You're her knight in shining armour, she wants you to be close to her and to love her with all your heart, not out of some sense of duty.'

Merlin realized that in such a scheme Gwen were to suffer the same fate that he had expected to be reserved only for himself: living closely to Arthur, loving him more than anything and wishing to be loved by him in the same way, but at the same time seeing him love someone else.

The servant went on. 'At least in the beginning, it would be very hard for her.—But I think, in time, she'd be able to come to terms with that.'

'It's disgusting that you can even _think_ of doing that to her', Arthur said, frowning, averting his eyes from the servant with such insolent ideas.

'As you're disgusted of yourself, because _you_ think of doing that too?'

Arthur ignored the question, not wanting to admit that his friend was right. Instead, he said, 'You'd have her live a loveless marriage!—And do you think I could be happy, seeing her unhappy at my side?'

'If she truly loves you—which she does—, she won't be unhappy as long as she sees that beautiful smile on your face.'

Both, the scion and the sorcerer, noted that the word 'beautiful' was somewhat out of place.

Merlin quickly glossed over it, saying, 'I didn't say that such a marriage were a _great_ solution.—But I still think it's the _best_ one: It would still be a marriage based on honesty, friendship and mutual respect, and you'd both still be joined by the love for your future children, for a little Arthur and a little Gwen, crawling around your feet, scratching their little knees, and simply brightening your days.'

And then, Merlin raised his voice, and said. 'You're a _prince_ , for God's sake! When has a prince ever married out of love?'

Without the least bit of hesitation, Arthur answered, 'My father has.—The day he married my mother was the happiest day in his life.'

'Then he was one of the lucky _few_ , Arthur.— But as a prince, invert or not,—and believe me when I say that I don't enjoy saying this—as a prince, _yours was never a marriage based on love._ '

This sentence was like an arrow to Arthur's heart: He had heard such a sentence many times in his life, from many people he cared about: from his father, from Morgana, from Gaius, from the knights—but now, hearing it from the mouth of Merlin, for the first time, it had really hurt.

Merlin went on, saying, 'I understand that such a marriage with Gwen wouldn't be the romantic fairy tale marriage for any of you—but it could be the best for Camelot.'

Arthur considered this, heaved a deep sigh and said, shaking his head, 'You know what I hate about you?' And without giving Merlin time to think about an answer, he went on, 'Not that you're a warlock or that you are one of the most incompetent servants ever. I hate it that you sometimes say the right things.'

'No you don't', smirked Merlin. 'That's why you _like_ me. You said so before.'

Arthur sighed again. 'You're sure that you can't just use your magic', he moved his hands and fingers as if he were casting a spell, 'to make me love Gwen the way she deserves?'

'As I said: If I could, I would. But I can't.—I mean, _theoretically_ , there are some spells which could create a short-lived infatuation, for example, by using enchanted twin bracelets, both wrought on the same night of a full moon, or if I tied together two pieces of cloth, one worn by you, the other one worn by her—'

Merlin stopped, a thought had stricken his mind: If Arthur hadn't that kind of interest into women, why would he be hiding a scarf of Gwen's under his bed?

'—the other one worn by her', Merlin repeated, 'I could create a, a ...'

Was it really Gwen's scarf? He had only seen the scarf that one time when he was 'cleaning' under Arthur's bed, and that was in the dark. Back then, he had just assumed that it must have been hers, but he never had any proof of that.

'I could create ... a ... ', said Merlin again, once more without completing the sentence.

And then he remembered that he never had seen Gwen wearing scarfs made of rough linen. In fact, there was only one person whom Merlin ever had seen wearing cloths of such a texture:

The man who'd greet him every day in the mirror.

'You could create a _what_?', Arthur asked impatiently.

Merlin slowly went on, while mentally putting two and two together, 'I could create some weak form of love ... though considering your general disposition towards the other gender ... it might not work at all.'

And then he understood.

He understood why Arthur kept that scarf hidden, why he had had a nightmare of Merlin's death, why he had been so conflicted by Merlin's magic: Why he _really_ had kissed him.

With a sudden flirtatious ring to his voice, Merlin said, 'That's what I _could_ do.—Though maybe I wouldn't _like_ to.'

'No? How so?' Arthur crossed his arms on his chest, raising an eyebrow. 'Not that I care, _servant_ , whether you _like_ to do what I order you to.'

Merlin scooched a bit closer. 'And I think, you mightn't like it as much either.'

'You speak in riddles', Arthur said, leaning a bit away from the servant that slowly crept towards him.

Said servant stated, 'When you told me that you like men ...', grinned, and finished with breathy voice, 'Why'd you kiss me?'

Trying—in vain—to ignore how arousing Merlin's behaviour was, and avoiding to look into his servant's eyes, Arthur swallowed. 'Well of course! You wouldn't understand me otherwise!'

'I don't believe you', said Merlin, softly laying his fingertips on Arthur's chest and gazing into his eyes. 'I think you're lying.'

'Well, I'm _not_ ', lied the prince, unconsciously using the exact same words Merlin had used before to shatter Arthur's dreams.

'Whose scarf is it that you keep under your bed?', Merlin urged on as he spread his fingertips on Arthur's chest and placed his palm on the prince's heart.

'It's—It's mine, of course! Gwen has given it to me', said Arthur.

'Sire, lying doesn't become you either. If she had given it to you, there would be no reason for an invert to hide it.' He smiled, and said, 'I know the real reason: It's mine, isn't it?'

Arthur didn't, _couldn't_ answer. He could live with Merlin's knowing of his nature, but not with Merlin's knowing of his love.

The wizard smiled, leaning forward another bit. 'Admit it.'

Arthur still couldn't answer, but now because he couldn't think: Their faces were so close that he could feel the hot, excited breath of his servant on his own skin. He had no idea what the warlock intended to do, but he wasn't able to resist it either, whatever it was.

'Admit it', repeated the servant, his smile widening, his teeth showing.

Arthur put his hand on Merlin's chest, applying firm pressure to keep the servant at bay. 'Why're you creeping so close to me?'

'I'd rather talk to you from close up.'

'I'd rather talk to you from a distance.'

'Well, you're out of luck then.—It _was_ my scarf, I know, and, Arthur, it wasn't only my scarf that you had all along', Merlin said, before he quickly kissed his prince.

Then he leant back to enjoy the puzzled expression on Arthur's face.

The scion blinked a few times, not being able to make sense of what just happened. 'Me-, Me-Merlin?', he stammered.

Merlin smirked, 'Sire?'

'Why did you just ...'

Merlin shook his head. 'And still you claim that _I_ were slow-witted.' Smiling, he resolved his riddle. 'You not only had my _scarf_ , you also had my _heart_.'

Still confused, he looked into his servant's smiling eyes, not allowing himself to even dream of thinking that it might possibly be imaginable that Merlin loved him as well; he thought that it would be unfair if that much luck and that much happiness were allotted to one single human.

But then he understood as well, and he forgot about Gwen and marriages and the realm and all his problems and all his sorrows.

The servant said with a smile growing wider and wider, 'I suppose being an invert is no longer such a bother.'

Arthur shook his head vigorously. 'No, knowing that you ...—Why didn't you ... Though I didn't... But had I known earlier ...' While he had been babbling, the puzzled expression of his face had gradually turnt into one of elation.

'Had you known earlier, then what?'

'Well, I would have let you know that I'm interested in you way sooner.'

As he heard this, Merlin was about to burst with joy, but he decided to play with his prince some more. He said coyishly, 'Oh? That's nice to hear.'

'Merlin, don't play hard to catch.—You said before that hardly a woman, that not even _mares_ can resist me.' He added, 'And neither can you', and winked flirtatiously at his servant.

'I don't know what you mean. I might have thought so in the beginning, but months of cleaning after you and of washing your dirty smallclothes have cured me of any infatuation I might have ever had.'

Merlin hadn't told that story very convincingly—he had been snickering—, so it was no wonder that Arthur didn't buy it. The blond prince ruffled Merlin's black hair and said, smiling, 'Just admit it: I'm your Prince Charming.'

The warlock leant closer to Arthur, and whispered into his right ear, 'Of course you are', before he kissed him on the cheek.

Arthur took Merlin's hand, kissed it in return, and smirked, 'You know that makes you my _princess_ , Milady.'

'A price I'd be willing to pay, Milord', Merlin said with a grin, then pushed his prince back until he lay flat on his back, and crawled on top of him, capturing Arthur under his body. 'As long as _I'm_ your princess', he said, and gave Arthur another quick kiss on the lips.

Arthur answered by drawing Merlin's face closer and re-joining their lips, by kissing his loyal servant, his best friend, his true love.

The owl that had been hooting earlier watched them from atop an ash, though it took little interest in them. In its eyes, these two writhing creatures of the ground, lying among the leaves in the shine of the fire, were neither a potential threat nor potential prey, let alone a potential mate. It didn't care that the occurrence down there could change the future of a country, or that it definitely would turn around the fates of the two men. Soon, it indifferently looked away into the night, searching for anything noteworthy.

On the other hand, for the two writhing creatures themselves, these were the most exciting and most important minutes of their lives. Each and every day, they had been used to ignoring what they really wanted, what their hearts begged them to do and instead to listen to what their sense of duty commanded them to do: To fulfil their destiny and to waste no thoughts on such minuscule, petty things as their own happiness.

But now, at long last, they just did what they wanted to do, just for once they ignored what might be the consequences.

And after several minutes—minutes that in the eyes of the two men themselves had only lasted an ever so short moment—, when the first, most violent passions had subsided, they unentangled their bodies, and sat up, cross-legged and facing one another.

Merlin picked a leaf from Arthur's blond mane, and said, still a wide grin in his face, 'I'm so happy I could shout.—I've got Prince Arthur.—Gwen would kill me if she found out.'

'She wouldn't be the only one', Arthur said, half joking, half serious. 'And that's why we better _not_ shout out our happiness.' He laid his right hand on Merlin's cheek and brushed it softly with his thumb as he said, 'But still, better secret happiness than none at all.'

'You'd have to tell Gwen though. If you were to proceed with your plan that is.'

'No, not _I_ , but _we'd_ have to tell her that. There's no way I'll abide her reaction alone, and she'd need you to console her as well.—But you're right, she would have to know. _If_ she agrees to making such a sacrifice, she'd have every right to know.—But let's not talk of that now. I don't want to think now about what we _have_ to do and what we _mustn't_ do. Let's talk about what we _can_ do and what we _want_ to do.'

But just as they were about to do that, the herald of the morn raised its voice.

'That was a lark', Merlin said with a sigh. All the time, while he had kept watch, had he longed for the night to end, but now he regretted that it was about to do just that. 'Day has come.'

Both knew what this meant: Their true relationship had to remain a secret, so it was to be confined to the obscure realm of the night; only the moon would be allowed to see their embraces and kisses. But during the day, when the sun and Camelot were watching, they couldn't be but master and servant, and all of Arthur's embraces and kisses would have to be reserved to a woman he honoured and respected, but whom he didn't love—and whom Merlin would then probably be jealous of.

Their gazes met, silently agreeing that this night and its findings wouldn't be spoken of from now on until the sun had set. Then Arthur turnt his head towards the east, where the morning star already twinkled above a silver horizon, in the direction of his home, and said, 'We better break camp. Soon, there will be enough light to ride. Father, Morgana, and Gaius will be worried sick about us. They expected us to arrive at Camelot a long time ago, let's not keep them waiting longer than necessary.'

Merlin nodded and started gathering his belongings, but Arthur had noted the fleeting scowl on his servant's face while the name of Morgana's had been in the air.

The prince wondered what could possibly have happened between the two. He was convinced that it couldn't have been a grave matter; after all, it had to do with his dear foster sister, with that innocent being, whom he had known since he could remember, with whom he shared a bond that couldn't have been tighter had they shared one womb.

'Don't you think it's about time you told me why you don't like her?', the prince said as he, still sitting on the ground, brushed dirt off of his busy servant's trousers.

Merlin hesitated, not knowing what to say. He had long ago decided that he wouldn't hurt Arthur by disclosing her real nature until he had definite proof. But he no longer wanted to lie to him either; he had finally been honest with Arthur, and the idea of lying to the prince—to _his_ prince—after all this, it just made him sick in the guts.

But he was saved from this conflict by his knight in shining armour; Arthur had seen Merlin's unease with the subject and decided that as long as his servant didn't want to talk about it, he wouldn't ask.

So, the prince changed the subject, saying, 'Don't forget to extinguish the fire.—Hey, since you're a warlock: How about you do this with magic?'

Merlin thought about this for a moment, then said with a grin, 'I know a way that would make water appear from above and douse the fire. Would that tickle your fancy?'

'You can make it rain? That's _awesome_!' Arthur's amazement evaporated quickly, as he deciphered the grin on Merlin's face. 'You were going to pee on it, weren't you?'

'I was going to pee on it, Sire', Merlin repeated smugly and laughed. 'Alright, I see you didn't want me to do that. Well, how about this.' He hunkered down, winked at Arthur, and whispered into the flames, 'Dwæsc!'

And as if he had blown out a candle, the campfire suddenly went out.

Incredulous, Arthur put his fingers to the ashes and the stones that had hemmed the fire, and was astonished when he found them cold. 'That's amazing! You could rid Camelot of firestorms for good!'

'How so?', said Merlin as he stood up. 'You know we sorcerers can't use magic in public without risking our lives. Because in the eyes of the King, magic is evil.'

Arthur stood up as well, so that Merlin could help him get back into his hauberk. The prince said, 'You know, all I ever heard about your kind is based mainly on how my father sees magic.—But you are so unlike every sorcerer he ever talked of and unlike every warlock I've ever met ... My opinion on magic might be wrong after all ...'

Merlin smiled. 'It takes a great mind to be able to admit one's being wrong.' And he added, chuckling, 'I know, I'm a kiss-ass.'

'I sure hope so', Arthur answered with a smirk, as he put his belt with the re-sheathed sword around his waist, and went back to the matter at hand, saying, 'But that doesn't mean that I'll allow magic, once I'm King; so don't get your hopes high.—Seeing how my father is still in the prime of his years, much will happen until the crown shall pass on to me ... And just because you're a good warlock, doesn't man that all of your kind deserve my trust ...'

'No, Sire, they really don't', Merlin said, wishing that he could do more than just alluding to the real snake that Arthur was nurturing at his bosom.

'But ...', Arthur said, putting his right hand on Merlin's shoulder, and trying to smile reassuringly, 'Who knows, maybe I will ...'

Then, both looked around their little camp, making sure that they weren't leaving anything of importance behind.

'Ready?', the prince asked.

Merlin nodded, and silently they went to their mounts. Then they stacked their belongings on the backs of the horses and saddled up.

When they were ahorse, Arthur said, 'Just to be sure: Don't expect me to treat you any different now, just because you're my ..., you know ...'

With a smirk, the servant said, 'Just say it: I'm your _boyfriend_.'

'Yes, that.' Arthur couldn't help but smile happily as he thought of that. 'You're my boyfriend.—I can't treat you any different. Don't think I'd enjoy this, but any rumours claiming that I had carnal relations with a manservant—'

'As of now, we haven't had any carnal relations.'

'Firstly, that _will_ change—'

'The sooner, the better', Merlin interjected grinning.

The prince went on blithely, 'And we shall have plenty of opportunities for that: Since you talk in your sleep, I have to make sure that, if you don't sleep alone, _I'm_ the one next to you.—Secondly—'

Merlin interrupted him again, saying, 'You know, I'm sure I could find a spell capable of ridding me of my somniloquy.'

Immediately, Arthur frowned.

Merlin asked, 'Are you upset because I'd have to use my forbidden magic?' He started grinning, 'Or is it because you _want_ to sleep next to me?' He chuckled and finished, 'Or is it that you don't understand what "somniloquy" means?'

Arthur moved his horse closer to Merlin's, and put an ungloved hand on his servant's inner thigh, sending electric sparks through both their bodies, and making the warlock gasp.

Arthur smirked, 'I see that I'm not the only one who'd suffer from that.—It's good to know that this option exists', he said, 'but let's not be hasty.' Then, with a more serious tone, he went on. 'Secondly, mere _rumours_ of my loving a man will suffice to jeopardize my legacy, would risk a peaceful reign of any son of Gwen's and mine.—At day, it is imperative that we appear like master and servant', the scion went on, setting his horse into motion, eastwards, homewards. But looking back at Merlin, he added, 'But at night, when it's just the two of us ...' He winked at the sorcerer, and said, 'At night, anything's possible.'

'I can hardly wait', Merlin said, smiling, as he made his horse trot after the prince's steed.

When they returnt to Camelot two hours later, all was as to be expected: Everybody hailed the prince and cheered upon seeing him back, while only Gwen, Gaius and some of the knights cared to acknowledge the servant's return with friendly words. Because in everybody's eyes, it was Arthur alone who had saved the day; it was he who had slain Gormes, who had brought justice to that vile warlock that had threatened the peace of the land. Merlin on the other hand had probably just carried the prince's shield and had cleaned the prince's boots.

Seeing the two, nobody would have guessed that anything else of importance might have happened on that journey, and nobody could have seen any signs of that—unless he had been hiding in the empty solar: Because there, a secret watcher would have seen that the scion and the sorcerer, when they passed through that unguarded room, joined their fingers for a short moment, walking hand in hand, while smiling blissfully at one another..

* * *

 _THE END  
_

 _(Don't forget to read the epilogue!)_


	5. Epilogue

EPILOGUE— THE SCEPTRE AND THE WAND

* * *

EARLY MORNING — THE PRINCE'S CHAMBERS

Carrying breakfast in his hands, Merlin pushed the door to the prince's chambers open with his back. 'Rise and shine', he said gleefully, and was surprised to see that the prince had already risen, and that he wasn't shining. On the contrary: Arthur sat at his table, had obviously been waiting for Merlin, and stared at him, quite miffed.

'Where have you been yesterday?', the prince said accusingly, watching his servant's hands as they placed a jar of water, a cup, and two plates on the table. 'I had expected you to visit me!'

'I'm sorry, Arthur, but I—'

The prince interrupted him, saying, 'Oh, but where are my manners! Do sit down!'

Merlin looked around, noticing that all the chairs had been removed from around the table. ' _Where_ shall I sit down?', he was about to say, when Arthur gestured him to sit down on the royal lap.

As if he feared that somebody might be watching them, Merlin looked around, then said, almost whispering, 'What if somebody comes in?'

'Everybody believes that you're clumsy', the prince said with a firm voice, drawing the servant onto his lap. 'If somebody were to enter, we will just say that you stumbled and landed on me. Nobody will _ever_ doubt this.—Now', he said, putting his hand into Merlin's hair and running it through his fingers, 'you were saying?'

The servant should have taken offence at the 'clumsy'-bit, but being once more held in Arthur's strong arms, he couldn't care less about that. He snuggled against his prince's body, and explained himself. 'I _wanted_ to visit you, Arthur, I really did, but I simply _couldn't_. All day long, I had to run errands for Gaius and for the feast,—and for you! _You_ at least could have cut me some slack!—I had hardly slept the night before, and the moment I touched the mattress in the evening, I fell asleep. The same would have happened, had I lain down in your bed.'

'Well, even then, I could have had my fun with you.' Arthur grinned, kissed the blue cloth on Merlin's chest, and said, 'I'd have just rolled you on your stomach.'

'Quite the romantic, aren't you?', the servant smirked.

'You know that I'm just kidding, Merlin.' Closing his eyes, he embraced his servant's chest and said, 'I'm sorry if I burden you with too many duties, but as I said: No one must know of us. And that's why I will continue to ask a lot of you.—But do not fret: Whatever I do to you during the day, I will make it up to you during the night.'

Merlin, putting his nose to the blond hair, placed a kiss on Arthur's forehead. 'Is that a promise?'

'I wouldn't lie to somebody who can curse my, ahem, _sceptre_.'

'Now, don't worry about that. Since I'd be suffering from that as well, your little sceptre is safe from harm.'

'That's good to hear', Arthur said, tightening his embrace, and fell silent, just enjoying the feeling of finally having Merlin.

He couldn't blame the servant for not joining him in his chambers: The evening before, supper had been replaced by a sumptuous feast in honour of the slayer of Gormes, and Merlin probably had had hardly any time to eat, let alone to relax—what with him having to help out in the kitchen, preparing the Great Hall, helping Gaius, and doing the chores Arthur himself had requested of his servant to be done.

That's why Arthur, when he had been lying awake in bed after the feast, had been sure that Merlin wouldn't be able to come; but still, he had lain hours awake, hoping that Merlin would _still_ join him, thinking of what he'd say and of what they'd do: He would have told him how much he trusted him, he probably would have finally told him that he loved him, he would have kissed Merlin on the lips, the cheeks, the neck—the neck that had enchanted Arthur in the light of the campfire on that fateful night—, he would have replaced the linen and the wool on Merlin's body with embraces and kisses, he would have blindfolded Merlin with the red scarf, and then ...

Then, his kisses would have travelled to Merlin's intimacy, and he would have made him moan and pant and squirm and toss with pleasure ... He would have tasted Merlin's essence ... And at last, he would have grabbed Merlin, he would have entered him...

Suddenly, he heard Merlin's somewhat flustered voice. 'Arthur, uhm, is that your, uhm, pressing against my legs?'

'You know it is', the prince curtly said, his arousal rising as he felt that this most intimate body part had begun to press against his lover's body.

Merlin swallowed, blood rushed to his nether regions as well: Up until now, Arthur's arousal had been nothing more than an idea he'd think of in lonely nights, it had been but a phantom he'd play with in his dreams: But now, this idea, this phantom had become tangible; it was knocking on the door and waited to be allowed entrance. Merlin would just need to get up and open.

'You know, we could just, ahem', Merlin said, blushing, 'lock the door, and, uhm, you know ... just, uhm, get it out of the system before ...'

'No, Merlin, we can't', Arthur said with a sigh, wistfully staring at the bulge that had grown in his servant's trousers. He valiantly repressed the urge to unveil what's beneath that dun cloth, to grab Merlin's erect member and have it enjoy the prince's tender, loving kiss. 'It would be too conspicuous if we were to lick—ahem, I mean to _lock_ ourselves in; especially at this time of day, when other people might come.' He looked up, away from the fascinating protrusion in Merlin's lap into Merlin's face, into blue eyes burning with desire, where he saw the reflection of his own hungry eyes. Once more running Merlin's black hair through his fingers, he said, 'But it will be so much more beautiful if we wait until nightfall.'

Merlin whimpered, trying to repress his urges, and at the same time feeling a little push from the prince's manhood. His head knew that Arthur was right, that waiting was the sensible thing to do, but his loins didn't care about that; his carnal longings had developed greatly since their first kiss, and the night before, when he should have sneaked into Arthur's chambers, a dream had fanned the flames of desire even further:

In this dream, Merlin had been an evil warlock whom to slay noble Arthur had set out. But when they met in the evil warlock's black tower, they fought without swords or armour or magic, they wrestled with bare hands. And soon, their wrestling turnt into something else, as each tried not only to floor the other one, but to cop a feel, and to rid the opponent of his clothes, and their match ended with passionate sex in the warlock's bed and with a climax that had torn Merlin out of his sleep, into a reality where he really climaxed, where he really felt his seed, accompanied by waves of pleasure, shoot through his member.

And instead of quenching his thirst for Arthur, this dream had but incited it further.

But there was no helping it, the prince was right: This was not the time. 'Alright' Merlin said, unable to dissemble the disappointment in his voice, 'but—'

The servant fell silent: Somebody had knocked on the chamber door.

'Sire', a voice shouldered its way into their tête-à-tête, a voice that turnt out to be Gwen's.

'E-Enter!', Arthur called after having heaved a heavy sigh, and hurriedly pushed Merlin from his lap, almost dropping him to the floor.

Merlin quickly got back on his legs and rushed behind the chair the prince sat in, so that the Arthur's body would hide Merlin's: Because his arousal was clearly visible, poorly veiled by the few thin layers of woven cloth.

And while he was realigning his black hair, tousled by Arthur's fingers, Gwen entered, carrying in her hands a scroll and on her face a smile that was bright enough to illuminate the darkest of caves.

Out of force of habit, Arthur wanted to rise from his seat to greet the maiden, oblivious to the fact, that if Gwen were to see in what state he was in, there would be a lot of explaining to be done. But luckily, just in the nick of time, Merlin pressed the royal shoulders back into the chair. (Both men knew that there was going to be a big talk with Gwen one day concerning her future with Arthur, of course, but for this talk, the two men needed time to prepare and sufficient blood supply to their heads.)

'Good morning', Gwen said while dedicating a special smile to the prince. 'I hope I'm not disturbing anything.'

'Good morning, Gwen. Your presence is _never_ a disturbance', Arthur said with his most charming voice. 'To what do I owe the honour?'

'I bring you word from your father. He wishes you to join him in the throne room as soon as you finish your breakfast.' Slightly squinting at the somewhat panting men, she noticed that there was something strange going on; the two men seemed startled, Arthur was blushing, and Merlin's smile was somewhat wry. 'And he told me to bring you this scroll', she said and went to the table.

Before she came close enough to catch a glimpse of the bulge in Arthur's trousers, the prince laid his hands across his lap, instead of taking the scroll from her hands.

'Are you two alright?', she said, suspiciously raising an eyebrow, and put the message next to Arthur's plate.

'Yes, of course! It's just ... My leg is still hurting from when I was injured in Gormes' tower', the prince lied. 'I was just about to have Merlin have a look at it', he added, not totally lying: Merlin was going to later have a look at—among many other things—Arthur's legs.

'Well, there's nothing to fear then', Gwen smiled, oblivious to the lie. 'Gaius always praises his skill as a physician.—But you know of course that Merlin has the healing touch.'

The two men smiled stiffly, convincing Gwen that there definitely was something queer going on, like that they were planning a prank, or discussing a gift—but whatever it was, she felt that it was not her place to intrude into private matters. 'Is there anything else I can do for you?'

'Nope, we're, I mean, _I_ , I am fine', the prince said, suppressing a moan: The chair he was sitting in had an opening in the back rest. Through this opening, Merlin was massaging the space between Arthur's shoulder blades—without the use of his hands.

The handmaiden was about to leave, as she turnt around, and said, 'Oh, before I go, I have a message for Merlin as well: Gaius was looking for you. He said there are some herbs he needs picked, comfrey, stickle wort and such. I think it was urgent.'

'Oh, really?', Merlin said, not intent on leaving as long as Gwen could see his arousal. 'I'll see him later.'

'I need Merlin's assistance myself now', the prince said. He would have loved to tease the servant for making the old physician wait, but he knew what was at risk. 'But tell Gaius that I'll send him down as soon as possible.'

'As you wish, Sire', Gwen said with a curtsey. Then, she waited a little bit, hoping that Arthur would say something that would allow her enjoy Arthur's sight longer, but nothing of that sort came. Before the silence could become awkward, she bid the two men adieu and left, wondering what they were up to.

'Well, that was close enough for my taste', Merlin said, coming forth from behind the chair. 'I'll go to Gaius and see what he wants; as soon as my trousers are flat again that is.'

'Yes, do that.—But you're right that was close! I thought it would be easier, but hadn't we been interrupted, I might have taken you for breakfast! I was _this_ close', Arthur said, showing with his thumb and his index finger how close, 'to snatching you, throwing you on the bed and, ahem, _making the beast with two backs_.'

'I know what you mean—though I wouldn't use that kind of expression.' Merlin went back to finishing the preparations for the prince's breakfast. 'We better be thankful that she interrupted us so soon, and let's take this as a lesson not to be careless.'

'Yes, let's stave it off', Arthur said, closing his eyes to clear his mind from his fleshly desires. When he opened them again, he had to immediately close them again and cleanse his mind more thoroughly, because he had seen Merlin bending over to pick up a candle, accentuating that cute little bum of his.

When he was finally cooled down, he opened the scroll Gwen had brought in. At first glance, he saw what it was about, groaned, put it back on the table and said apprehensively, 'It's a list of invitees for the Harvest Festival—Father will want to talk about that. Ugh, that's going to be one _boooring_ meeting.'

The servant filled the prince's cup with water and said, grinning. 'It's going to be a lot more boring if you keep on thinking what awaits you tonight.'

Arthur groaned. 'It's going to be a long day—I'll only be able to think of that.'

Merlin smiled at the prince, knowing exactly what he meant. Then, looking down on his own body, he saw that the bulge in his trousers had shrunk to normal size, and that he was ready to leave the prince's chambers.

'Now, if you pardon me, I'll leave you to your breakfast. I don't want to keep Gaius waiting.'

Merlin was about to go, but suddenly his wrist was grabbed by Arthur. 'Hold on a minute, aren't you forgetting something?'

'Sire?', the servant said, mentally rummaging through all his neglected duties, searching for the ones Arthur might already know about: There were none. 'What do you mean?'

The prince got up, put his hands once more on his servant's cheeks to draw his face closer, and kissed him on the lips. ' _Now_ you may go.'

'How inconsiderate of me', Merlin smirked, 'I shall make up for this at night.' He went to the door, smiled back at his prince and left the prince alone with his breakfast.

For half a minute, Arthur stared after him, wishing him back into his arms, then sat down with a sigh, and directed for the first time his attention to the plate in front of him.

He laughed: On his plate lay a big sausage with two eggs at one end.

* * *

EARLY AFTERNOON — CAMELOT

It was devastating news for the prince: Merlin had left to accompany Gaius to a sacred grove, to gather special flowers and herbs that would be used, among others, in the Harvest Wreath. They wouldn't return until nightfall.

'Stupid Harvest Festival', Arthur muttered as he walked to his chambers, sulking, casting angry gazes at any innocent guard he saw. He had had to get through _the_ most boring meeting ever and through an unbearably Merlin-less lunch, and so many horrible hours of Merlin-lessness were still ahead of him.

Some of the knights had invited him to training, and Morgana had invited him to join her and Gwen on a ride to a wedding in a nearby village. And under different circumstances, Arthur would have loved to test his skills against Sir Leon and Sir Gawain, or to visit a feast with the two ladies, but now, all that he could think of was Merlin, all he wanted to do was his servant.

He entered his chambers, closed the door and leant against it, sighing again. If only he had taken his servant in the morning—'to get it out of the system', as Merlin himself had suggested—, then he'd at least be able to think of something else than Merlin's smallclothes and the marvelous wonders that hid within, and he wouldn't have had an unwanted erection for the best part of the day. (Not even Geoffrey of Monmouth's verbose soliloquy on why in other lands Harvest Crowns were wrought instead of Harvest Wreaths had been able to lull Arthur's manhood.)

Suddenly, a red piece of cloth caught the prince's attention: It was Merlin's scarf, of which a corner was visible below the bed's mattress. Arthur had put it there early in the morning, after having spent the night with the scarf on the pillow, since it was the next best thing to having Merlin in his bed.

The prince went to the mattress, pulled the scarf out and started contemplating the little, innocent, lucky piece of cloth that had been the catalyst for Merlin and Arthur finding one another: Had his servant not found this item while 'cleaning', he wouldn't have figured out the prince's true feelings, he wouldn't have confessed his love for Arthur in the first place, and the two wouldn't have kissed; without this scarf that Arthur had filched in a weak moment, both would still be lonely in spite of being together all the time.

Arthur lay down on the bed, holding the cloth to his bosom, and closed his eyes, thinking of the things he was going to do that night, when the need for waiting would finally, _finally_ , be obviated, when the only Harvest Festival he cared about would be held: the one that would celebrate the harvest of the forbidden fruit of a way too long wait; when he would hug his servant, kiss him and hear him silently, wistfully whisper words of affection; when he'd take off Merlin's clothes and finally touch his intimacy, make him aroused, touch him and kiss him again and again and again; when he'd make Merlin moan in pleasure, when he'd give him that kind of pleasure only one single person was allowed to give him.

Thinking these thoughts, hearing Merlin's imaginary whimpers, feeling Merlin's soft skin with ethereal fingers, Arthur's body reacted: His smallclothes became tight, his constricted manhood called for the prince to free it of its silken prison.

He grabbed his rigid member and rubbed it through his trousers and through his undergarments. A whimper escaped his lips, as his body urged him to go further, to let the hand slip beneath the clothes. In vain: Arthur wanted to save himself for the night, he wouldn't go further.

But the prisoner in the silken gaol was not willing to accept this 'no'; too long had it been since the last release, too much desire had accumulated since the last kiss. It intensified its claims, throbbing, pushing at the unyielding prison walls, begging for its warden to punish it with a thorough beating.—Arthur had often imagined himself making love to Merlin, never before had that had such a strong effect.

And in the end, the manhood proved itself to be of a stronger will than the whole man.

'Ah, what the hey. Just a little won't hurt', Arthur murmured as he conceded to his member's insistent demands; he wouldn't go to the end, but some squeezing would alleviate the urges and help him get through the long remainder of the day.

He raised his pelvis to lower his trousers and his smallclothes to his ankles, then closed his fist around the base of his member.

He closed his eyes and gasped, as pleasure spread from his lap through his body. Because in his mind, it was not _his_ hand down there; it were the thin, long fingers of Merlin's that he had observed in the morning—as he had observed them every morning: Because it were these fingers that had always had the privilege of touching Merlin's body wherever they wanted, whenever they wanted

His toes curled, as he slowly, agonizingly slowly moved the hand up along the sensitive, soft skin, up along the hard member, all the way up, until his palm and his fingers held only the glans. A drop of pre-ejaculate oozed out, moistening his ring finger and the pinkie, lubricating his fingers. A silent smacking sound arose when his hand slowly moved down again, pulling back the foreskin and spreading the drop on the naked glans.

Arthur shuddered, the pleasure was immense—because every little bit of comfort was accompanied by the thought that just a few hours later, all his phantasies would come true: All it needed was waiting a little, and it would really be Merlin's fingers, taking tightly hold of his eager erection.

His hand was halfway down on the shaft, when another idea rushed through his nether regions: It wouldn't be only fingers he'd feel down there; it would be the mouth as well.

In his mind appeared Merlin, kneeling over the surprised prince, placing a soft kiss on the tip of his intimacy, while looking lasciviously into his eyes.

This mental image was too much; the prince got dangerously close to the edge, and he quickly removed his hand from himself.

But then, at this most untimely moment—he still could see where his fingers had pressed tightly on the skin—, somebody knocked on the door.

'Ugh', groaned Arthur; this uninvited sound was what pushed him over the edge into the deep sea of pleasure.

'Don't come in!', Arthur squealed with a high-pitched voice, writhing, trying to sound calm, but being violently shaken by the onset of one of the fiercest climaxes he had ever lived through. 'I'm get-getting changed—', he called, panting, while the first spurt of his phantasy manifested itself in the shape of a thick white streak onto his cushion, his face, and his jerkin. Protecting his face with his hand, he added, 'Wha-What is it?'

Still feeling the liquid as it rushed through his member and shot warmly into his hand, he heard a guard's voice. 'Sire, You wished to be informed when Merlin returns to the castle!'

'Merlin's back!', the prince jubilated internally, and with a quiet ' _Yes!_ ' raised his fist towards the canopy over his bed, allowing another spurt to shoot into his face.

But in the next moments Arthur's joy proved to be as premature as his climax, because the guard went on, saying, 'He has sent word that he and Gaius won't make it back until tomorrow.'

The prince reacted to this Job's news by silently screaming a word usually not heard within Camelot's walls.

It rhymed with 'Luuuuuuuck!'

* * *

AN HOUR BEFORE ARTHUR'S MISHAP – THE SACRED GROVE

'I forgot to ask', Gaius said with a groan as he sat down on a moss-covered stone, 'why did you have that merchant inform the castle that we wouldn't return until tomorrow?'

Merlin grinned, 'Just some prank I'm playing on Arthur', and bent down to pick some comfrey. In part, he was lying: He intended for this to be a prank, to be a little tease for the prince, but at the same time it would also be a very nice surprise if Merlin were to appear unexpectedly that night in his boyfriend's chambers.

'You two do have a very ... _rare_ relationship', Gaius said, laughing. 'You're the first servant I heard of who'd prank his master.—Arthur used to sack servants for less than that, he must be very fond of you.'

'Well, you know me, it's easy to like me', said Merlin and showed the smile that was one of the many reasons that made him so likeable.

'That indeed it is', the old warlock said to the young one, remembering how fast he himself had grown fond of his disciple. 'If I didn't know better, I'd say there was more behind it. Something _magic_.—Oh, look, there's a bunch of vervain.'

Merlin looked to where Gaius pointed with his staff, and said, 'I'll get it.' While he picked the flowers, he said, 'There's some orchids as well. Do we have any need for them?'

Gaius shook his head. 'Not unless you'd need an aphrodisiac.'

'They're aphrodisiac?', Merlin said as he picked the vervain, wondering if it was mere coincidence that Gaius would say something like this so close to his getting together with Arthur.

'Well, people say that their tubers have such an effect. I myself don't know, I've never used them in my potions', Gaius said and started inspecting some of the freshly picked herbs with his magnifying lens, giving Merlin the chance to—just in case—surreptitiously unearth one orchid.

The young warlock saw right away what might make people ascribe them their famed properties: The round tubers resembled a certain male gland, usually found in pairs between the thighs.

Putting the orchid into his own pocket—near to the organ it resembled—, he brought the vervain back to his teacher, handing him the plants with another big smile.

'You sure are happy today, Merlin. What's the occasion?'

Merlin played the innocent. 'Nothing. I'm just happy; Arthur has accepted me as a sorcerer, the land is at peace, it's autumn weather at its finest, and the Harvest Festival is just around the corner.' Rubbing his tummy, he added, 'Not to forget the opulent Harvest Feast. Why would I not be happy?' He added with a smirk, 'Maybe it's not _my_ being happy, but it's _your_ being grumpy.'

With the same smirk, Gaius said, 'Maybe it is someone's having entered your life?'

'What do you mean?', Merlin asked, trying—in vain—to sound as if he had nothing to hide.

Gaius laughed. 'Merlin, there's no need to lie to me here, we're far away from Camelot and its inquisitive eyes and ears.—I know that you and Arthur are a couple, and in fact, I'm glad about it.'

The young warlock was speechless; he'd have never thought that Gaius could find that out so soon. But how could he? Merlin and Arthur had spent hardly any time together, and whenever they talked in private, they were really in private; there was no way that anybody could have heard them. Then it hit him:

'I talked in my sleep, didn't I?'

Gaius nodded, smiling gently. 'Sometimes, when you return from hazardous journey, you do talk in your sleep. I try not to listen, of course, but sometimes I just hear what you say ... —And so, soon after your arrival in Camelot, it became apparent that you love Arthur.—And yesterday ...'

The old warlock stopped, and averted his eyes from Merlin, blushing faintly: Because the night before, Merlin had been _very_ talkative concerning the trip to Gormes' tower, and _very_ descriptive and graphic concerning the things he was going to do with Arthur, using words and expressions Gaius would have never thought that Merlin knew of.

He cleared his throat, and went on, 'Well, suffice it to say, yesterday it became clear that something of importance has happened on your trip to Gormes' tower. Apart from him finding out about your magic that is.'

Merlin sighed and sat down next to Gaius. 'I guess there's no use denying it.' Looking at his hands and smiling from ear to ear, he added, 'It's true, I love him, and though he hasn't said it yet, I know he loves me too.—But ...' he sighed, 'Do you think it's wise? You know, Arthur needs offspring. Isn't what we're doing too risky?'

The old man shook his head. 'The prince is a considerate man, he knows what he puts at risk and whether it's worth it. And if it takes _you_ to make him a _happy_ considerate man, then I have no doubt about what's the right thing to do.'

Merlin's smile reappeared as he heard that.

Gaius went on, saying, 'And if you still have doubts, then let me tell you that I've wished for years for someone like you to enter Arthur's live.'

'Wha-?', Merlin's jaw dropped, his eyes widened in surprise. 'What do you mean? Did you know that he is ...?'

'I wouldn't say that I _knew_ , but ... I always suspected it. I've known him since the day he was born, and I've seen how he has changed. I've seen him grow into a young boy with fair hair who'd never stop smiling, and from this happy boy into a stern teenager who'd rather play with swords and other boys than chase after girls.' Gaius' voice became somber, as he said, 'And then I saw this stern teenager become a serious young man who did everything to get his father's praise and acknowledgment, even if he himself took no joy in it.' He looked into his disciple's eyes, and added, smiling again, 'And then you came along ... and something changed; I more often saw glimpses of that gleeful young boy he used to be.—He knows what is at risk, and he is wise to hide his secret, but he can't fool an old fool like me.'

'Do you think Uther knows as well?'

'Uther? No.—No, he is blind to what mustn't be. And be grateful for that, Merlin; if he knew, Arthur might no longer be his heir.'

Merlin clenched his fists. 'How can a father punish his child for being what it is?' And shaking his head, he added, 'I just don't understand why Arthur puts so much effort into pleasing such a father.'

'Don't blame Uther, Merlin. It's not that he doesn't love Arthur. But the King's duty is not the love of his son, it's the welfare of his people, and the welfare of his people requires the King to have children.—You know to what lengths Uther has gone for Arthur to be born; if Arthur were to have no children, all this might be for naught.'

'But Arthur _will_ have children! Not through me, of course, but he knows just as well what is at stake, and he will do what's necessary to keep Camelot safe!'

'You don't have to convince me of that, I know Arthur will.—But Uther won't believe that, he won't accept your relationship.'

Merlin sighed. He himself didn't care that much about Uther's opinion on that subject, but he knew that it meant a great deal to Arthur. 'I wish I could change that', he sighed. 'I wish there were a way to make Uther have that much confidence in Arthur as I do, and that he'd give us his blessing.'

'I wouldn't count on that', Gaius said, shaking his head. But then he put a hand on Merlin's shoulder, and said, 'It probably means nothing to you or Arthur, but ... You know, in a way, I've grown to think of Arthur and of you as of the sons I never had.' He paused a moment, and added with a smile, 'And I'll gladly give you _my_ blessing.'

When he heard that, Merlin couldn't restrain himself: He hugged the old man, started crying, and said, 'Thank you.'

* * *

NIGHT — THE PRINCE'S CHAMBERS

Since—as far as he knew—Merlin wouldn't return until the next day, Arthur had gone to bed early, hoping to sleep away the long hours of his boyfriend's absence. But just like Merlin, sleep eluded Arthur's arms. He tried different positions—on his stomach, on his back, on the side and hugging a cushion—he just wouldn't fall asleep:

Because whenever the prince heard even the faintest sound, his heart would start racing, filled with hope that this sound would announce the return of the other heart—although his brain knew that this wouldn't happen until the next day.

And when he finally had managed to fall asleep, he was yet again awakened by an intrusive sound, but this time it was the sound of a door being opened, closed and locked; for this time it really was the herald of somebody's entering his chambers.

'Halt! Who's there?', Arthur said resolutely into the absolute darkness of the night. Because it was new moon, not a single ray of light was to be seen.

He got his answer when the candle on his nightstand suddenly started burning as if it were lit by magic, and a lean figure with black hair, blue eyes and a red scarf appeared in its dim light.

'Merlin!', he exclaimed, quickly pinched himself to make sure that he wasn't dreaming, then jumped out of the bed and hugged his boyfriend. 'A merchant came to the castle, saying you wouldn't return until tomorrow!'

'I was telling him a lie, just to mess with you.—I'm a warlock; you know not to believe anything my kind says', Merlin said with a grin, tightly pressing his body against Arthur's. 'There's no way I'd have made it through another night without you.'

'I know what you mean.'

For a long time, they silently stood there, just enjoying the warm feeling of holding the other one in one's own arms, of feeling the other's cheek rubbing on one's own, of holding the other's body in one's own arms, of hearing the other's excited breath—and of feeling the other's manhood so close to one's own, of feeling it slowly grow erect.

Because that's what they were thinking about all the time: sex.

But now that it was finally within reach, they didn't dare initiate it.

Since they had found each other, both had used every intimate moment to brag about what they were going to do to the other one, claiming that they wouldn't waste one second to make love to the other until he'd scream for mercy. And now they at long last had the chance to stick to their promises.

Finally, Arthur said, 'Shall we—'

'Oh God, yes!', Merlin said immediately, not waiting for the question to be uttered.

But still, both hesitated going on and remained in their tight embrace. Their knees were weak, their members were hard, and yet they remained standing, holding and supporting each other in an embrace both wanted to end.

They didn't end it, and they couldn't end it.

The two valiant heroes were scared.

This most intimate, most private experience they were about to share was going to change everything. The body of the other one would no longer have any secrets, Arthur and Merlin would see each other with different eyes: They would no longer be mere friends, they would be true lovers.

'This, uhm, you know, it's my first ... I'm a virgin', Merlin whispered into Arthur's ear when the silence grew awkward.

Arthur smiled and tightened his embrace on the invert virgin warlock. He'd have been surprised had it been otherwise. Then he whispered, 'You're not the only one.'

After yet another moment of awkward silence, Merlin cleared his throat, and said, 'So, won't we get undressed?'

The prince nodded, took a deep breath and finally put an end to their embrace. 'Let's get to it.'

They bared their upper bodies, while hungrily watching the other one as he did the same: Merlin had often seen Arthur's broad chest unclad, and the prince had sometimes seen the nude, slim upper body of his servant, but this time, it felt completely different: They had never seen the other's chest in the orange light of one single candle, they had never seen it before knowing that moments later they would touch and kiss it.

'We're really going to do it ...', Arthur said, covering his lap with his hands. He was unable to decide where he should look: at Merlin's shily smiling face, at the slim, unusually nude chest, at the stomach where a thin twirl of hair danced towards the conspicuous bulge, or whether he should just look away.

'Well, what are we waiting for?', Merlin said, and put his hands to his trousers as if he were to remove them, but in the end just left his thumbs in the waistband and his trousers where they had been all the time.

'I don't know.—Maybe we should undress under the sheets?'

'That's a great idea', said Merlin vigorously, climbed onto the bed and under the sheets, a second later followed by Arthur.

And a few moments later, two pairs of trousers, one of rough linen, one of fine silk, were lying on the floor next to the bed, soon to be joined by the respective underwear, leaving two naked men under a blanket that made no secret of their arousal.

Merlin laughed nervously. 'So ...', he said, looking at the canopy above him.

'So ...', repeated Arthur. 'It's really going to happen.'

'Yes ... Finally.'

Under the sheets, Merlin stretched his left hand towards Arthur's, and blushed as he found it.

Then the bed started shaking slightly, but it wasn't caused by any moving of their bodies; it was the wild, violent pounding of their their hearts that set the mattress into motion.

'Well?', Merlin asked with trembling voice, and swallowed loudly. 'What are you waiting for?'

'I? Why don't you start?'

Merlin turnt his face towards Arthur. 'You're the prince. Isn't it your duty to take command?'

Arthur turnt his face towards Merlin. 'Well ... Do you want me to?'

'I don't know', the sorcerer whispered.

'But you're ready, aren't you? Or do you want us to do this another time?'

'What? No, I want to do it now!... I want to ... Don't you?'

'Of course I do!', Arthur almost shouted. 'I've been waiting for this moment so long, I can't wait any longer.'

'If that's the case ... then what are you waiting for?', Merlin said with an inconspicuous smile.

'I don't know', Arthur said with the same smile, then rolled his eyes and laughed. 'This is ridiculous. I mean, look at us. It's obvious we both want to!'

'You're right.—Maybe we should just start with kissing?'

'Sounds reasonable', Arthur said, waiting for Merlin to start, while Merlin waited for Arthur to do the same; both lay still and listened, waiting for the exited breathing of the other to come closer.

But when Merlin gave Arthur's hand a slight squeeze, the prince finally took the initiative. He rolled on his stomach, and moved his upper body towards Merlin until he, propped up on his elbows, fleetingly kissed him.

And then he kissed him a second time.

And when their lips joined for the third time, they closed their eyes, opened their mouths, and at that moment—when their tongues met for the first time—all their nervousness and anxiety dissipated.

Without interrupting the kiss, Arthur crawled over his lover, capturing him under his own body, in a position similar to their very first kiss; the kiss that they had exchanged in the woods, in the light of the campfire and with only an owl as their witness. But this time, Arthur was on top, and they were nude and aroused, the shafts of their erect members were rubbing against one another.

Merlin forced himself not to let his hands go directly for Arthur's lap; he let them wander across Arthur's body, examining the arms, buffed by years of practice with sword and shield, then he touched the chest, letting the thin tufts of hair run through his fingers, until he no longer could restrain himself: his hands skipped the muscular stomach and went straightforward to throbbing manhood; with his right hand, he gently cupped Arthur's testicles, with his left hand, he tightly took hold of the prince's sceptre.

'Nh, Merlin ...', the prince moaned against his lover's lips, as Merlin's fingers moved towards the base, pulling back the foreskin and pushing a warm palm onto his glans: Never before had he allowed anybody to touch him in that intimate place, and never would he have thought that he could feel such pleasure; it was a pleasure that no woman's hand, no other man's touch would ever be able to create.

Moaning silently, Arthur buried his face in the pillow, next to his lover's head, and started kissing the warlock's neck—one of the many body parts of Merlin's that he had wanted to caress since long ago.

Below him, Merlin could have cried out of sheer happiness: He shared such an intimate moment with the person whom he loved more than anything, pleasing him, being the first to hear Arthur's whimpers of lust, touching his hot manhood, feeling it pulsate and throb.

Two nights before, he wouldn't have thought this possible: When Arthur had found out about Merlin's magic, he had been furious, had drawn his weapon on Merlin, was ready to kill him, hated himself for having trusted his servant. But all that was a thing of the past: His love for his servant had prevailed, and by removing all his armour—by being unarmed, naked, vulnerable in the warlock's grasp—, he proved this: The prince had accepted the warlock, he trusted him.

This knowledge caused almost as much pleasure to Merlin as feeling Arthur's hot breath and tender kisses on his neck, as hearing his moans of pleasure, as pleasing him with both hands, as feeling the prince's member occasionally brush against his own.

'No-, not so wild', said Merlin, panting, as Arthur bit him on the neck. 'People will notice it in the morning!'

'They won't, 'cause it's where you wear your scarf', said Arthur, before he started sucking on Merlin's neck with an intensity that was surely going to leave a deep red mark, until he let go of it with a loud smacking sound. Pausing every few syllables to gently bite and kiss the skin, he went on, saying 'I want to ... mark you as mine ... I want ... to have proof ... on the morrow ... that this night ... isn't just ... a wonderful ... wonderful ... dream ...'

Merlin pushed the blond head away from the neck, towards the shoulders—where he could more easily hide the marks of his kisses and caresses—and said, 'Nh, Arthur, you can have proof of that any time whenever we're alone, you just, nh, you just need to ask.'

'That won't do.' Arthur lifted his head, so that he could look Merlin in the eyes. 'I can't have _this_ during the day', he said, and kissed Merlin once more on the lips, 'or _this_ ', he said, and placed a gentle kiss on the clavicle, 'or _this_ ', he whispered and pressed his lips on Merlin's Adam's apple, 'or what I'm about to do.'

The prince slowly crawled backwards, stopping every few seconds to join his lips with Merlin's skin, until he disappeared in the night and under the blanket. The warlock no longer saw what the prince was doing, but he still felt the kisses, lower and lower, getting nearer and nearer to the rigid body part whose claims for caresses had until now been ignored.

Merlin trembled with anticipation, wondering when the kiss would come that would be placed on his member; because that was where he wanted to feel Arthur's lips the most. But the prince took his time; he kissed the navel, the skin on the hip, the spot just above the pubic hair, the right thigh, and then he went back to the navel.

Merlin had already lost hope that Arthur would please him with his mouth, when it finally happened: The warlock grabbed a cushion and pushed it onto his face to suppress his moans, because otherwise he would have alarmed the guards: The prince's hand had taken hold of his member, the tongue had started licking slowly along the shaft, from the base upwards.

The pleasure was greater than anything he had felt before, it was almost unbearable for Merlin: many times had he dreamt of this and many times had he touched himself imagining this, but in his wildest phantasies would he never have thought that the warm, wet tip of Arthur's tongue—slowly gliding upwards, playfully moving to the left and to the right—could create such a feeling.

And so, just a few seconds after the royal tongue had for the very first time touched this most intimate body part, and before it had even ascended half the way up, Merlin was on the verge of completion.

Arthur slowly went up, letting his tongue tickle Merlin's erection, enjoying the writhing and muffled moaning of his lover. When he got close to the tip, he slowly pulled back the foreskin, baring the glans that had been more than anything begging for Arthur's kiss, and giving Merlin another push towards the very first orgasm with the prince.

Merlin pressed the cushion tighter on his face and almost screamed; all the lust and desire that had built up since the moment he had first laid eyes on his blond prince, all this lust and desire was welling up and preparing for release. The tongue advanced another inch; what was left of Merlin's sane mind fiercely concentrated on fighting back the orgasm, on not ending this wonderful experience just a few seconds after it had started.

A drop of pre-ejaculate ran down the shaft, inciting in Arthur the desire to go faster, to get more. And so, he sped up his ascent on Mount Merlin, and engulfed the tip with his mouth, caressing it with the whole flat of his tongue, licking away what had remained of Merlin's self-control.

'A-Arth-Ar-', the warlock groaned into the pillow, pushing his hip upward and shoving his member into the prince's mouth, as the climax billowed through his body and into his member, his seed spurting onto Arthur's palate, intermittently filling the mouth with his warm, salty essence.

Arthur still remembered what little stimulation had sufficed for himself this afternoon, but still he was surprised—though in a very pleasant way—by this early reaction; he wanted his lover to be happy, and at that he had succeeded; he had proof of that in his mouth.

He slowly swallowed this proof, letting single drops of the the mixture of saliva and semen run through his throat, even further increasing his hunger.

'I'm so ... so so- ... sorry', Merlin whispered, breathing heavily. His words were interrupted by moans of pleasure because Arthur was still greedily suckling on his member. 'I was so ... excited, and your ... you ... I mean—I haven't ever ... haah ... I mean ...'

The prince took no heed of these words; it was _his_ turn now. He removed his mouth from Merlin's manhood that—no longer supported by Arthur—fell limply over and made a quiet clap as it smacked against the lean stomach. While he climbed out from below the blanket, he spit the last of the mixture of saliva and semen into his hand and rubbed the liquid onto his member, eager to _enter_ his lover, to at long last be _inside_ of him.

Merlin, seeing Arthur's hungry face reappear, saw that desire. And he had the complementary one: the desire to be entered. He grabbed his prince's cheeks, kissed the lips that had vouchsafed him a glimpse of heaven, and then turnt onto his stomach, presenting his own cheeks to the Arthur.

But the prince asked, 'What are you doing?'

'Aren't we going to ...?', Merlin asked, looking backwards over his shoulders as he lay propped up on his elbows.

'Of course we are', answered Arthur, straddling the warlock's body and slowly pushing the tip of his moistened manhood through the gap between Merlin's buttocks. 'But I, nh—', a shudder of pleasure interrupted him as the friction pulled back his foreskin, 'but I want to see your face. Even if we have not much light, I want to look in your eyes while we're doing it.'

Having said that, he dismounted Merlin and shoved at his side, rolling him onto his back and nearer to the candle. And then, with one single movement of his arms, he cast the blanket onto the floor, baring the white bed sheet and allowing the young men for the first time to really see the other one in all his glory.

Merlin swallowed, more intimidated than impressed by Arthur's sceptre. When he had touched it earlier, he had soon realised that the prince's manhood was big, but the taut member, glistening in the candle's light, was rivalling the one in Merlin's dream—the one where Arthur had been turnt into a donkey.

'What's the matter?', Arthur asked right away. 'Are you alright?'

'You're huge!', gasped Merlin.

'I am?', asked Arthur, astonished. He was used to being complimented, but he wasn't used to being complimented on the size of his member, let alone to being complimented by _Merlin_. He blushed, and was glad of that: Every drop of blood that wasn't _down there_ would make it easier for Merlin.

In the meantime, the warlock had become fully erect again: the first shock had subsided and he was able to enjoy the sight of prince Arthur, the once and future King, as he knelt right next to him, naked, aroused, looking hungrily and compassionately at his boyfriend whom he didn't want to cause any discomfort.

But now that his boyfriend was erect as well, Arthur noticed that in _his_ eyes, it was _Merlin_ who was huge. He straddled his lover again, lined up his sceptre with Merlin's wand, and laughed. 'We're the same size!'

'We are?', Merlin said, directing an incredulous look at his lap, whereto another rush of blood flowed as he felt Arthur's testicles shuffling softly on his own.

'Yes!—If anything, yours is bigger!', said Arthur. And, somewhat offended, he added, 'If you don't want us to go ahead, just say so, and we won't.'

'What?', protested Merlin, 'No! Nonono, I ... I really thought ... I've never seen somebody else's ... It just _seemed_ ...' He cleared his throat, and said, 'You know what? Just forget what I said. Let's do it!' He pushed Arthur back and lifted his legs, presenting his entrance, then added, his voice hoarse with desire, 'I want you inside of me, don't keep me waiting.'

The prince abided. He placed the glans at the entrance, spit on it, and slowly pushed, until it disappeared in his lover's body.

'Nh, Ar- ... -thur ...' Merlin grunted, his eyes closed, and started stimulating himself with his hand. Inside of him, the soft and yet hard member still felt bigger than it had seemed before, and he had troubles breathing, as if he had been thrown on a hot day into ice cold water, but at the same time immensely enjoyed the thick, warm member as it pushed itself into his shaking body. He grabbed another pillow and used it again to dampen his moans, but this time Arthur, groaning, removed it right away.

'Don't!', said the prince, 'Let me take care of that.' Then he leant forward, propped himself up on his elbows and pressed his lips on Merlin's, to silence both their moans of pleasure. Because he himself had troubles containing them: The deeper he pushed his member into the tight opening, the more he felt each single movement of Merlin's; he not only heard and saw it: he _felt_ it; each subtle twitch, each half choked breath, each moan of pleasure, each excited beat of Merlin's heart, each wave of lust that rolled through the body beneath of him—everything moved through Arthur's manhood into his own body.

When he had fully entered Merlin, pressing his testicles against his lover's bottom, he gasped: Though he had not even started moving back and fro, he already felt the orgasm closing in, and he felt that it closed in on Merlin as well. 'I won't last long, Merlin', he whispered.

'Neither will I', smiled the warlock.

'Then let's make the best of the few seconds we have!'

Merlin put his arms and legs around Arthur, drawing the prince into a tight embrace, pressing his left cheek on Arthur's.

Both closed their eyes, as the prince gently started his hip movements, pulling his member almost entirely out of the warlock, then pushing it back in, until his lap, with a silent _slap_ and a loud moan from both men, hit against Merlin's bottom.

Re-entering Merlin, a surge of pleasure ran through their bodies, making the warlock gasp and inadvertently mark the prince as his: Tightening the grip on the prince, he had put his fingernails into the flesh on Arthur's back until a few drops of blood appeared. But neither Arthur nor Merlin noticed that, both were absorbed into the realm of lust.

Pulling out of Merlin and entering him again, Arthur felt his legs and knees growing weak, all his strength being gathered for the climax, for the first of many climaxes that he would share with the moaning, shuddering man below him; with the man whom he had—in spite of himself—gravely injured two days before, at whose side he had kept wake, fearing for his life, by whom he had in return been gravely hurt when this man confessed being a warlock, and whom he had forgiven, because he would have forgiven him anything. Because this man was the man Arthur loved.

He pulled his member, already aching for release, out of Merlin and entered him once more. The warlock whispered, 'Arthu-, I-, I-', but his words melted into one long whimpering sound, as he felt the onset of the moment of bliss, stronger than the first one.

The prince entered the warlock, pressing his lap tightly against him, pushing his member deep inside him. And then it happened.

The two men who were destined for one another—not only as heralds of Albion, but also to make each other complete—climaxed, giant waves of lust and desire forcing their way violently through their bodies, causing them to press their bodies against one another, and making them hold their breaths to suppress their wild moans. Merlin's seed splashed against Arthur's stomach, while the prince's twitching member shot semen into the manservant.

Panting heavily, they remained in this intimate position for a minute, thinking about what just had happened, how much they had enjoyed it and how little they could wait for it to happen again.

Suddenly, the prince laughed.

'What's so funny?', asked Merlin, looking blearily at Arthur.

The prince answered, still trying to catch his breath, 'It's nothing. It's ... just, haha, I thought that ... that if anybody were to enter the room now ... and saw us this way, me on top of you ... and inside of you, ... my stomach soiled with your ... There would be a lot of question to answer.'

Merlin smiled and said nothing, noticing internally that laughing at such an idea was quite unlike sober, serious Arthur; it was as if the prince had been changed by his bodily union with Merlin, as if he indeed had become more like the joyful, carefree boy Gaius had talked about.

Then, Arthur gave Merlin another kiss, and asked, 'Have I already told you ... that I, you know ... the L-word?'

Merlin gave his lover a coy smile, and answered, 'With words? Not once. ... But you have often told me with acts ... Like when you affectionately hit me with apples ... and lovingly tell me to bugger off.'

'I see. Never mind', said Arthur with a smile, feigning offence.

'Oh, come on, I was kidding ... Say it', Merlin said, wiping a bead of sweat from Arthur's forehead.

'I wouldn't have ever done with you what I've just done with you if I didn't.'

'Then say it.'

'No.'

'Say it!', Merlin repeated with more insistence.

'No!', Arthur repeated, still smiling.

The mere _way_ Arthur had said 'No!' was yet another proof to Merlin that it was love. Although the prince was nude, he still wore an armour; even though he had just made love to Merlin—it wasn't just sex, they had made _love_ —, he wasn't ready to say it out loud.

But Merlin was insistent. He tickled Arthur in his armpits, making him laugh, and commanded, ' _Say it_ , you prat!' Then he gave him another kiss and said, 'I want to hear you say it.' And as he felt Arthur's member moving slightly in his body, he added, 'I want to hear it ... while you're inside of me.'

Arthur smirked, 'I don't think so.'

'Come on, I'll say it first.' He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and then, putting his arms around Arthur's neck and pulling him closer, he said, 'Arthur, I love you!—I've loved you since the day I came to Camelot.'

'I can't blame you for that', the prince said with a grin and kissed Merlin, 'I almost fall in love with myself every time I look into the mirror.' But while he said that, warmth suffused his chest: The sorcerer's words had melted away the last piece of armour in the scion's heart.

He smiled, and said, looking deep into Merlin's eyes, 'You know I love you too. I love you so much, that ... I—' He stopped as he felt his voice failing: He was about to cry out of pure joy.

And since his voice wouldn't do, he let his deeds do the talking, and kissed Merlin yet another time, and yet another time.

And many more kisses followed until Merlin finally had to sneak out of the prince's chambers, so as not to raise any suspicions should he fall asleep in his prince's arms—the world wasn't to know about their happiness after all.

It took both of them a long time to fall asleep that night, the fresh memories of their union kept their hearts beating wildly. Each lay in his bed, staring into the dark night, his hands crossed behind his neck, in his mind lying next to the other one, thinking about the future they'd share.

Their adventures weren't yet finished yet—a sham marriage for Arthur was to be prepared, satanic mills were to be burnt down, and Albion was to be built; their destiny was far from being fulfilled. But now, they longed for these adventures, they could hardly wait for them:

Because destiny wanted them to brave these dangers together.

* * *

 _Well, that's all. I hope you enjoyed reading this story, and I sure would like to hear your opinion on it.  
_


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